


Of Captains and College Boys

by neocitybynight



Category: K-pop, NCT (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hockey AU, University AU, also wendy chanyeol and a few others make cameos but it's not really important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27336853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neocitybynight/pseuds/neocitybynight
Summary: It’s hockey season, which for you, as sophomore captain and rising hockey star, means an inter-team prank war, and your university’s annual Charity Ball. For the next month, you’ll be forced to endure vicious pranks by the men’s hockey team, and organize the event with Lee Jeno, their cocky-yet-hot captain and a royal pain in your ass.
Relationships: Lee Jeno/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

“JENO LEE!” The cry rips from your throat, a primal caveman scream, as you slam a fist against the damp, mildewed wall of the shower in frustration.

“Cap, what is it?” Ryujin, your co-captain, peeks her head around the shower stall.

“This, this,” you growl, holding up your soaking goalie pads. “This is war.”

Gathering up your gear, you toss it into your locker before marching out the door. Loud rap music bumps from the wooden door across the way, its Men’s Varsity Hockey sign bold and black, but you ignore it, practically slamming the door against the wall as you throw it open.

“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck?” A chorus of male voices greets you, along with a flurry of towels and hockey pants being pulled up.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourselves,” you say. Your eyes scan the room, narrowing as they settle on the dark-haired boy in the corner. Marching over, you glare down at him, arms crossed. “Jeno, what the fuck?”

“Hmm?” he looks up at you innocently, in the process of unlacing his slick black Bauer skates.

“You know, I had a great day. Ate a full breakfast for once, gave a presentation in Enviro on saving baby turtles,” you hiss. “Then I came to the rink, ready for practice, and what did I find?”

He shrugs.

“My goalie gear, in the shower,” you say.

“Oh, wow, that’s unfortunate,” he says mildly. He slides off his soft skate guards, folding them neatly before placing them on the wooden locker bench.

“Do you mind?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulls his dri-fit shirt over his head, leaving him only in his chestplate and elbow guards, rock-hard abs on display. The funny thing is, most girls would be salivating to see the Jeno Lee - hockey captain, Nu Chi Theta brother, all-around ladies’ man - shirtless, but all that burns in your lower belly is anger.

“I really don’t like you sometimes,” you sniff. “Don’t play dumber than you are. I was the first one to the rink, besides you and all your headasses. This was your move.”

“I didn’t do it,” he says, snapping the velcro on his elbow guard.

“I have so much trouble believing that.”

“I swear,” Jeno says, looking solemnly into your eyes, though he looks on the verge of laughing, eyes scrunching up into would-be innocent crescents. “On the jersey of Wayne Gretzky, I did not touch your gear today.”

You narrow your eyes, ready to smack that smug smile off his face, when a hand clasps your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t be here.” Taeil Moon, the soft-spoken assistant coach, looks at you, eyes apologetic. “You know the rules.”

Fuck. “Sorry, Coach Moon,” you say, thinking quickly. “Just wanted to talk to your lovely captain about the...Halloween charity gala.”

“Really?” Coach Moon looks from you to Jeno, and back again, before clapping the boy on the shoulder. “Well, Nojam, I’m glad to see you two working together, even if the timing’s a bit off. Why don’t we all meet after practice tomorrow, and talk over logistics then?”

From behind Moon’s back, Jeno shoots you a lazy grin. “Sure,” he says. “A captain’s meeting sounds like just what we need. Show some unity between the programs.”

“Well, we’re all about unity here,” Coach Moon says brightly, completely oblivious to the eye-daggers you’re aiming at his precious captain. “As our school motto goes-”

“Unity, Academia, Integrity,” you say, shorthanding the Latin. “Awesome, thank you so much, Coach Moon. See you guys later.”

Ignoring the stares and whispers, you walk towards the exit with as much dignity as you can. You push through the door, and are halfway back to your locker room when a hand closes on your arm.

“What do you want, Na?” you sigh.

“Good to see you too, sunshine,” your best friend laughs, running a hand through his sweaty hair, bleached silver, even though the playoffs are months away. “Well, firstly, Jeno didn’t touch your gear, but I know who did. It was Jisung, one of the freshmen, he didn’t have a choice.”

“I will still fight him,” you say sourly. “Do you know how much chafing-”

Jaemin grimaces. “Okay, yeah, the water was kinda unnecessary. But do you really not know why he did it?”

“Because Jeno’s a prick who can’t accept that our team has outperformed you guys for the last decade?”

“One, I resent that, and two, it’s October,” Jaemin says. “I thought you knew about the Captain’s Trick or Treat.”

“The who what?”

The door to the locker room bangs open. “Na, get your ass in here,” one of the players calls. “Coach wants to go over set plays before practice.”

“Sorry, duty calls,” Jaemin says. “Ask Ryujin about it, she’ll know. Just...don’t do anything terrible to me? Since I was the one who told you and all.”

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Fine. But only since I love you and we’ve been friends since peewee. I’m still mad.”

“I’ll buy you Popeyes after the game on Friday?”

“Okay, maybe I’m a little less mad.” You give him a small smile, and return to your locker room. As you head to your locker, grabbing a few towels from the cart near the door, Ryujin is by your side immediately.

“You good, cap?”

“What’s the Captain’s Trick or Treat?”

Ryujin blinks. “Oh, I thought you knew about it. I was going to ask you what we were planning, actually.”

“Everyone’s talking like I know what this is,” you say. “I genuinely don’t.”

“Oh,” she says. “Yeah, sorry, I forget you’re a sophomore. We had it my freshman year, two years ago. It’s a bi-annual prank war. For the entire month of October, both varsity hockey teams have free rein, they can do whatever they want to each other, within legal boundaries, of course. This all lasts until the charity gala, which is a sort of truce. But, there’s kind of a tradition there too.”

She giggles. “A lot of players hook up at the afterparty. It’s not required, of course, there’s tons of exceptions, but something nearly always happens. So, if you’re looking for a ride on the captain...”

“Gross,” you wrinkle your nose.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t fuck Jeno,” Ryujin snorts, pulling her practice jersey over her head. “The hair, the abs, the eyesmile? You lucky bitch.”

“Okay, yeah, looks-wise,” you say. “But that whole team is full of cretins.”

She hits your arm. “Nana’s on that team, you meanie.”

“You would defend him,” you tease.

“Oh, stop,” she sighs. “He’s such a player, they all are.”

“All the more fun to tame them,” you say, making a sexy cat’s claw at her, and she rolls her eyes.

The door to the locker room opens, and the mood immediately drops. The speaker shuts off, mid-song, and in march Coaches Archambault and Kim, bringing with them the frostiness of the practice rink outside. Coach Archambault looks around the room, blue eyes sharp. “Three of you are not in your practice jerseys, two of you have untaped sticks, and you...” she gestures to a poor freshman, who cowers under her gaze. “Make sure those glittery laces are gone before this Friday’s game. I will not give Harvard any more reason to look down on us this season.”

She pivots to you, calling your last name in a terrifyingly soft voice. “We lost our last game to Princeton. This pulls our record to 6-6. Unacceptable. For being nearly a third through the season, this is unacceptable. Would anyone like to tell our darling captain what went wrong?”

The room is silent. “Really, so you all feel like you have nothing to improve on?” Coach Archambault says. “Then you should have no problem adding five extra laps to warmups.”

A girl stands up, silver braids glinting against her dark practice jersey. “We started off the first period in a deadlock, and it carried into the second and third periods. It would’ve been a zero-sum game and a tie, had she not let in the goal, two minutes before the end of the game.”

That was an impossible shot, you think. Three Princeton players in front of you, their burly orange-and black shoulders blocking your vision, the puck sailing between your padded legs before you had time to react. But you swallow your protest as Coach Archambault nods, looking around the room for more.

“I felt like there was a lack of energy,” a mousy freshman speaks up. “Just in general.” You fix her with a look, and she throws a fearful look at the coaches before shrinking back into her locker.

“She should’ve been able to handle screens in an even strength situation.”

“She had a lot of near misses, it was really the defense who did a lot of the saving.”

The criticisms keep pouring in, each one prickling your skin like a bee sting, making your face heat and your fists clench. When Coach Archambault is satisfied, she turns to you. Behind her, Coach Kim’s unpitying dark eyes bore into you, her arms crossed, standing with the head coach like some sort of athletic consigliere. “Having an even record this far into the season is unacceptable,” Coach Archambault says. “I would think that having the captain’s C on your jersey, especially as a sophomore, especially as a goaltender, would motivate you to train both yourself and the squad harder, push them further in the weight room, address any quality concerns you have with me.”

You look at her, willing the tears burning behind your eyes not to fall. You’ve dealt with hard coaches before - your last club coach would routinely lose his voice screaming at players - but Archambault is practically militant. With only a few words, she’s effectively turned the team against you and blamed you for the losses. While you are, technically, more responsible for their performance than your average player, you can’t control their actions on the ice, and have two co-captains and three coaches, if you count Chanyeol, your goalie coach, quite possibly one of the nicest men on the planet. Why he’s stuck coaching with two frosty bitches in skates, you’re not sure.

“I’m sorry,” you say, hating how quiet your voice sounds. “I acknowledge that I need to do better, and will train as hard as I can to lead us to victory.”

“What was that?”

“I NEED TO DO BETTER, COACH, AND I WILL TRAIN AS HARD AS I CAN TO LEAD US TO VICTORY.” Your voice rings out, loud and shaky, in the locker room. Coach Archambault stares at you for a long, terrible moment, then she nods, apparently mollified.

“See to it that you do. I expect you to lead at least two captain’s practices outside of our daily sessions over the next week, and make sure everyone is accounted for at team lift sessions. We need progress, and we need it fast. If we continue on this losing streak...just remember, we dress twenty players per game. Three goaltenders. This is the Ivy League, there is no room, on or off the ice, for mediocrity. You would do well to remember this, captain.” She puts an uncomfortable emphasis on the word captain, eyes flicking briefly to your game jersey, its chest emblazoned with that coveted ‘C’ patch. The implication is clear: if you don’t cut it, we can replace you. With one last look, she sweeps from the locker room.

“Practice starts in five minutes, I trust that the captains can at least lead a warmup,” Coach Kim says. “We’re going over shorthanded breakouts and screens today.”

She throws one last sanctimonious look at you, before exiting as well. The room is silent, tense, all the pre-practice music and merriment gone. Then Ryujin speaks up. “You guys are fucking savage.” Flipping her ponytail over one shoulder, she pulls on her helmet and stands, grabbing her stick. “She is your captain, show some respect.”

“Did Coach say anything that’s not true?” Vivian, one of the girls who’d spoken before, says, crossing her arms. “You might’ve been holding back because you’re her friend, but we’re all thinking it. Right?” Her kohl-lined eyes burn into you, and you wonder just how many players blame you for your less-than-stellar record this year. How many talk shit about you behind closed doors.

“Did you score last game?” Ryujin snaps. “Or the last two before?”

“Ry, I’m fine,” you say, jamming your helmet onto your head. Sliding your hands into your glove and blocker, you grab your goalie stick and clomp out into the hallway. The men’s locker room is silent, the light under the door dark. You glare at the pinewood, thinking back to Lee Jeno’s stupidly perfect face, how he’d so shamelessly looked you in the eye, half naked, and lied about his involvement in the prank, the way Coach Moon had clapped him on the shoulder and smiled at him like a son, practically called him golden boy to his face. You’re quite sure that no one would dare eviscerate him as Archambault had you, right in front of everyone.

“Fuck you, Lee,” you snarl, turning to walk up the stairs. Even if you can’t win games this season, there’s no way you’re losing this prank war.

🏒

The next morning, you’re rudely awoken by a chorus of rubber chickens. Literally. One minute you’re dreaming, the next your ears are being assaulted by a cacophony of wailing moans and shrieks. Jumping up, you run to the window. Below are a group of guys in varsity hockey jackets, all double-fisting those annoying yellow devils.

“Morning, captain,” one of them yells.

“What a lovely day, eh?”

You flip them the middle finger, yanking your curtains shut.

“What...the...fuck…” Wendy, your roommate, rolls over, eyes puffy and tired.

“Prank war,” you grumble. Walking to your closet, you rifle through your drawers, grabbing leggings and a sports bra.

“Where are you going?”

“Since I’m already awake, I might as well go for my morning jog,” you say.

“Hockey players,” Wendy shakes her head, pulling a pillow over her head.

“I know,” you say. “Sorry about the chickens...I’m going to murder their captain later. Boba this weekend to make up for it?”

She grunts a yes, and you tiptoe from the room.

As the day draws on, you think you’re going to lose it. The campus, it seems, has become a warzone. A group of players text in the group chat that they’ve been hit with slushies, and Ryujin says she found plastic spiders in her food (apparently one of the players has contacts at the dining hall). You give your girls free rein to prank them back, but from what you hear, it hasn’t been very successful. Practice is another level of hell, with Coach making you hold ice planks until one of the girls pukes, right in one of the rink trash cans.

By the time you slouch into the coaches’ multipurpose room, you’re steaming - annoyance and just-showered hair rising off you in the chill rink air like pale smoke. Throwing yourself into a seat at the long conference table, you give a tight smile to Coach Moon.

“Sorry, I had to sprint,” you say. “Showers had a backup.” It was because the boys stuffed the drains full of confetti, but they don’t need to know that.

“It’s fine,” Coach Moon says, smiling. “Jeno should be here soon, then we can start talking business.”

Looking down at your watch, you think of how mad Coach Archambault got when you were one minute late to warm up. You hadn’t been able to sit for two days, and yet Jeno’s already five minutes late. It’s another five before the door opens and Jeno walks in. His hair is tousled, jacket thrown open carelessly, and you can see the edge of a hickey peeking out from under the collar of his white tee. Red, still bruising.

“Hey, Taeil.” Jeno lifts his chin at you, before doing the bro-hug-shoulder-slap thing with Moon and sitting at the head of the table. You bristle.

The coach claps his hands together. “Okay, great, now that we’re all here. The charity gala is coming up fast, and I’m so excited. Both programs and a number of prestigious alums, all together for one night. It’s the perfect time to make connections.”

He winks. “Undrafted NHL signings will be in the next few months, so now’s a good time to start meeting people.”

You don’t miss how this is only directed at him. “I’m sorry,” you say sweetly. “But remind me, how many players from our school are in the NHL?”

“Three,” Coach Moon says brightly, oblivious to the slight glare Jeno shoots you. “And about five playing for the minor leagues.”

“Wow,” you say. “Impressive.”

“It’s more than you have in the NWHL,” Jeno shoots back. “Actually...are there any female alums playing professionally? Sorry, it’s hard to remember when their games aren’t nationally broadcast.”

“Ah, my bad,” you say. “Amber Liu and Cayleigh Barbour were class of ‘13 right? I’m so dumb, was totally forgetting how they won gold for USA in the last Olympics.”

Jeno opens his mouth to respond but Moon cuts in. “Right? Our school turns out such shining stars, and they’ll all be at the gala.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Wait. Amber and Cayleigh…”

“And Siwon, Kyler, Seonghwa,” Coach Moon says. “It’s a star-studded roster this year - they’ll be here for the gala and also will watch your games that weekend.”

Is it getting hotter? You suddenly feel hot, anxious, stomach knotting up at the very prospect. “Awesome,” you manage, face heating at how badly your team has been faring so far. And now you get to fuck up in front of your idols?

“Amber Liu was a goalie too, right?” Jeno says, following your train of thought exactly. “That’s amazing, I’m sure she’ll be watching you closely. Flattering, huh?”

You could slap him. In fact, you might do just that, were Moon not sitting between you. “Exactly,” the clueless coach says. “So I’m excited, and I really hope you guys are. Because as you know, it’s traditionally the captain’s job to choose the theme and menu, as well as decorate. And, of course, you’ll be expected to open the dance at the actual ball portion, you know, to show the unity between our programs.”

Jeno’s head snaps up, just as your eyebrows shoot practically into your hairline. “Sorry?”

You have to spend the next month event planning with Jeno, ending with a slow dance?

Jeno looks at you, a mischievous smile curling his lips. “Oh, this is going to be good. Isn’t it, Cap?”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, then remember Coach Moon’s presence, and add a fake laugh. “And of course, it always feels good to give back to the school. This’ll be the best one yet, Coach Moon.”

🏒

 _“This’ll be the best one yet, Coach Moon,”_ Jeno mimics, holding open the door as you stomp out of the rink some minutes later.

“This is so stupid,” you growl. A stiff breeze blows across the quad, and you hunch your shoulders against the cold.

“I know, I can’t believe Max Ryan isn’t coming back for the gala,” Jeno says facetiously. He falls into step beside you, seemingly unbothered in only his thin jacket and joggers.

“Stalking me now, Lee?”

“No, I live on frat row,” he says. He nudges his chin at your sweatshirt - its glittering Greek letters marking you as a sister of Iota Tau Zeta. “It’s a wonder we haven’t talked more before. I seem to remember hosting a few mixers with ITZ?”

His eyes glitter, the twist of his full lips suggesting that the word _talk_ is in italics.

“I don’t fuck with hockey boys,” you say. By some cosmic joke, the NXT house is the last on frat row, meaning you can’t shake him earlier than your own residence.

“Really?” Jeno says. “But anyone else will do? Football?”

“Yup.”

“Soccer?”

“Sure, if they’ve got good calves.”

“Badminton?”

“Well, now you’re just fishing,” you say, blinking as the buttery lights of the ITZ house loom up ahead. “What do you want me to tell you, that you’re God’s gift to hockey and women?”

“I mean that’d be nice,” he says, leaning against one of the Grecian columns on your porch. “I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow?”

“Excuse me?”

“Let’s get dinner after practice and talk about themes for the gala. You know, to make it the best one yet.”

You tilt your head to one side. “Public venue, I see. Lots of people. Scared of being alone with me?”

“You’re a hockey goalie, you’re scary by default, Cap,” he says, earning a hiss at the nickname.

“Don’t worry, I only bite the people I like,” you deadpan.

“I should be so lucky.” Jeno winks, tucking his hands into his pockets as he walks down the steps of your house. “See you later, Scary Mary.”

“You could just call me by my name.”

“Where would the fun be in that?”

You huff, shaking your head as you watch his retreating form. A clattering sounds from above, followed by giggles. “Did Jeno Lee just walk you home?” one of your sisters calls out the window.

“Ah, look at him walking,” a second voice gushes. “Boy is thick.”

“No, nothing to see, go to bed, Karen,” you huff, jerking open and slamming the door to the house just a little harder than necessary. The Jack-O-Lantern candy bowl in the foyer grins at you mockingly.

🏒

“So why are you mad again?” Ryujin grabs a bright blue straw and pokes it neatly through the bubble tea top.

You growl, taking a long sip, bubbles shooting into your mouth like bullets. “As if running extra captain’s practices and weight room sessions wasn’t enough, plus getting all my work for PoliSci done somehow, I’m also supposed to work with Jeno to plan the Halloween gala. And apparently every single famous alum is coming and watching our game that weekend. So there’s that.”

“That sounds so fun though,” Ryujin gushes, taking a sip of milk tea. “Getting to plan a Halloween party, spending quality time with Jeno Lee…”

“You want my job?” you laugh humorlessly. “You know he came in late? And his neck was covered in fresh hickies, but he was all ‘Yo Taeil’ and didn’t even apologize. He calls him Taeil.”

Ryujin giggles. “That’s confidence, all right.”

“You could call it that,” you say. “I prefer annoying, egotistical, playboy…”

“Handsome,” she croons, making kissy noises. “This is like the start to your romcom arc, I swear.”

You snort. In front of you looms the H-Mart, and you’re enveloped by the bright lights, the loud chatter in various languages, the huge aisles groaning with ramen and snacks and exotic fruits. Ryujin flits from display to display, poking at the cute packaging.

“I never did get why you disliked him so much,” she says, tossing a package of pink Meiji snacks at you. “Nearly everyone I know likes him a lot.”

“Likes him or his looks?” you grumble. “Everyone is always going on about how hot he is, how athletic he is...he can literally do no wrong to them.”

“Has he ever done anything wrong? To you?”

“No, but the way he just waltzes around the rink…” you toss a bottle of hydrogen peroxide into the red basket. “I’m not saying it’s because he plays hockey or is in Nu Chi Theta, but I am. Archambault would have already kicked my ass to the curb if I acted like him.”

Ryujin grabs an Apeach plushie, pouting at you over its pink head. “Well, maybe this will give him the chance to prove you wrong. What if he’s secretly the nicest person on the planet?”

“Secretly.”

“You know, it’s also a chance to get up close and personal to him,” she says. “You could play nice and use it as a time to figure out your master prank. Find out his weak spots, cook up something really embarrassing for him at the afterparty or something.”

“Ryujin-” you pause, hand on a package of matcha pocky. “I love you.”

“I know,” she singsongs. Tossing the plushie into the basket, she grabs a packet of spicy squid, pointing to the airbrushed boy band heartthrob grinning on the front. “I’m not crazy, he kinda looks like Jaemin, right?”

“Ry, you think every K-Pop star looks like Jaemin,” you say. “Just admit it - you think he’s hot.”

“Shut up, I mean, literally, objectively speaking,” she says, placing the package tenderly back on the shelf. “That entire team could actually be idols. If they wanted to.”

“And how about us?” you say, poking her side. “You’re a bit of a visual yourself, missy. Dispatch will be coming for you and Jaemin.”

“Stop, you’re literally so bad,” she says. “One, I don’t think he wants to. Two, even if he did want to, isn’t that, like, kinda gross since we’re best friends and he’s basically your brother?”

“Knowing each other since we were three does not equal familial ties,” you say. “Ry, when’s the last time you’ve dated someone? Seriously.”

Ryujin pauses, hand tracing a packet of Hot Chicken ramen. “I’ve been busy. You know how much time hockey takes up.”

She sweeps a strand of hair behind her ear, and you know better than to push it. Throwing the remaining supplies - pig’s feet, a tub of gochujang, and strawberry cupcakes - into the basket, you get into line.

Fifteen minutes later, you push open the back door to the practice rink (one of the only perks of captaincy is a skeleton key) and slip inside. The rink is cold, dark, steam rising off its glittering carapace as you tiptoe towards the locker rooms. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Ryujin whispers, voice echoing in the frosty void.

You stop, dead in your tracks, and she always smacks into you. “Ry, this was your idea. And honestly, what harm will it do? The barber shop is a ten minute walk from the NXT house, max.”

“But what if we end up pranking someone nice?”

“Like Jaemin?” you turn down the locker room hallway and, after double checking to make sure it’s truly empty, lean against the door to the men’s locker room. “Relax, I know for a fact he doesn’t shower at the rink.”

“Ew, don’t tell me that.”

“It’s because he’s a civilized human and showers at the house,” you say. You’ve never been this far into the men’s locker room, but are surprised at how clean it is. All their gear is tucked neatly into their wooden lockers, and the shower area is clean, if curtainless. Three caddies, all stuffed full of different shampoos, sit in an alcove. “Or takes a bath, more likely. Wouldn’t he look cute, covered in bubbles, singing to a little rubber duck? That’s so on brand.”

“You’re a literal perv,” Ryujin sniffs, but follows you to the showers nonetheless.

“Fuck, they’re not labelled,” you say. “Quick, help me find the one Jeno uses.”

Ryujin picks through the bottles gingerly. “Irish Spring, Old Spice, Pantene…”

“No way, those are too classy,” you say. “He’s probably into something stupid like Axe.”

You twist off the cap, and upend half its contents into the sink. Its scent, chemical-laden and musky in a way that’s obviously meant to be ‘manly’ fills the air. A flash of Jeno, hair dark and dripping, whisks through your mind. Long fingers trailing shampoo as he swipes his hair away from his forehe-

“Done.” You cap the bottle and shove it into the caddy, heat creeping up your neck. The idea of Jeno smelling like anything except for an annoying rival and maybe the smoke machines from the NXT parties feels impossible. Alien. You blame the bubble tea. Or the adrenaline of breaking into the rink at 9 PM.

Ryujin giggles. “You’re kinda scary when you’re in prank mode, Cap.”

“Roar,” you giggle, shoving her. “Okay, I’m officially done for the day. Wanna order takeout and watch Itaewon Class?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

🏒

After practice, you’re sweating, your muscles screaming, but you feel better. The plays are flowing well, your save percentage is way up, according to Coach Chanyeol, and you’re in really good shape going into Friday’s game against Harvard. There’s only one thing that could ruin your day.

“Well, hello, Sunshine.” Jeno leans against a lamppost outside the rink, leather jacket thrown over one shoulder. At your approach, he stands up straight, shrugging on the jacket, leather pulling tight over his broad back.

“Only one man gets to call me that,” you grumble.

“Na, right?” Jeno says, keeping pace with you as you stalk down the sidewalk.

“Love of my life,” you say sarcastically. “And yes. If we’re going to be forced to work together on this charity gala thing, call me by my name. Or better, throw in a captain.”

“Sure thing, Cap,” he laughs. “Where are you going?”

“Dining hall, I’m famished. Some people actually got work done at practice today.”

“Oh, God, don’t subject me to that,” Jeno groans. He darts in front of you, cutting off your path to the dining hall. “I’m serious. You actually eat that swill?”

“Yeah, it’s called a meal plan. Where would you rather go?” you say, crossing your arms. “What’s good enough for your refined palate?”

Something creases between his eyebrows, and you regret your word choice just a bit. But it’s gone as soon as it comes, replaced by that eyesmile Ryujin mentioned, paired with a mocking grin. “Just trust me.”

“I don’t,” you say, but allow him to steer you in the opposite direction, towards the Plaza, an on-campus food court that takes meal swipes.

“How cruel,” he says. “Well, at least my captaincy can be trusted to produce wins. What are you guys for wins, 6-7?”

Heat jumps into your face. “None of your business.”

The lights of the Plaza are bright and cheery, paper lanterns and bright international flags set against brick walls giving it a comfortable atmosphere. There’s cuisine from everywhere - Mexican, Italian, Chinese, American Cajun, Kenyan, and more - but Jeno leads you to the Korean section.

Walking right up the dining hall workers, he rattles off an order in flawless Korean. It’s then that you remember he’s an international student - he was one of the ambassadors at some diversity summit last winter, if you remember the school newspaper article correctly - you don’t know why this fact sticks with you, but it does.

“Want help ordering?” Jeno says, voice saccharine as he watches you read the menu.

“I’m good,” you say, and promptly walk up, ordering bibimbap with a side of soybean paste soup. You and Jeno both grab your trays, and walk over to a booth near the window.

“Surprising,” Jeno says, digging into his own galbi and rice. “I haven’t met many people who would know baechu doenjang guk, much less order it from here.”

You pause, mouth full of soup. “Are you serious? Am I going to die of food poisoning?”

“No, I’m kidding,” he laughs. “Your face, though, priceless.”

“Was that another prank?” you grumble, wiping your mouth with a single ply napkin.

“You know, I was wondering about that,” he says. “I was hoping you’d get at least one prank in this week, but I’ve heard nothing so far.”

“Or your guys are too embarrassed to admit them,” you say, stuffing a spoonful of rice into your mouth. “Did you not get my little shampoo gift?”

“Oh, yeah, that,” Jeno laughs. “I didn’t, but Mark Lee did. You see those blond streaks in his hair? He looks like the penguin from Surf’s Up, good work.”

“Mark got it?” you grimace. “Fuck, I like Mark. That was meant for you.”

“You really thought I use Axe shampoo?” Jeno presses a hand to his chest in mock affront. “I’m offended.”

“I’m sorry if you guys are savages and don’t label your man shampoos,” you say. “Ah, I should probably make that up to him.”

“All’s fair in pranks and war,” he shrugs. “For the record, I use Old Spice shampoo. Timber, specifically.”

He leans forward a bit, and a wisp of cologne, musky and dark, mixed with something fresh, Polo maybe, blows across your nose. It smells very good, and judging by his face, he knows. You glare, pushing his shoulder. “Personal space, Lee. Let’s talk business. I’ve got a limited amount of time tonight and I’d rather not spend it eating dinner with you.”

“You know, most girls would kill to eat Korean food with me,” Jeno says mildly, propping his arms behind his head. You avert your eyes as his white tee rides up, revealing the edge of a tattoo on his veiny right bicep.

“Yeah, well, I’m not some chick looking to score,” you say, cheeks heating as you take a bite of meat.

“Oh, I know,” he says, that damn smile crinkling his eyes again. “You’re not like other girls. Because you play hockey, a rough-and-tumble boys sport. But, oh wait, girls aren’t allowed to check, are they? NCAA rules.”

“Oh, if you don’t think I hit, you’re so wrong,” you say.

Jeno laughs. “I’d like to see you try. Hobbit.” Ignoring your splutter, he takes another bite of rice before setting down his chopsticks and pulling out a manila folder. “Okay, do you have enough food in you to negate the crankiness?”

“Who’s cranky?” you grumble, taking a sip of Sac-Sac. “But yes. Let’s talk turkey.”

“The Halloween gala is about a month from now,” Jeno says. “We’re expected to submit a proposal to the activities board next week. We need a theme, a menu, and an impressive guest speaker, since we’re inviting all the trustees.”

Opening up the folder, he pats a stack of papers. “I photocopied a bunch of yearbook pages from past years, so we can get a sense for what worked and didn’t work in terms of themes.”

“Photocopied? Is this the mid 90s?”

“Unless you’d rather hit the actual library for a study date?” he says, swigging from a can of Milkis. Strawberry flavor, which you haven’t had since you were a kid. “Didn’t peg you for the old-school type.”

“One, no, and two, no,” you say, snatching half the papers. “Let me take a look.”

For a while, there’s just the sound of flipping pages and soft chatter from groups of students who actually want to be eating together.

You flip through page after page, a sea of pretty hockey players and increasingly creative themes gleaming up at you. Midsummer Night’s Dream, fire and ice, superhero, Hollywood glam…

Jeno’s phone vibrates on the table. Attention temporarily diverted from a year when they went as religious icons, you catch the sight of something as Jeno picks it up. His eyebrows knit slightly as he types a response.

“Is that a cat pop socket?” you say, snorting.

Jeno looks at you over the lip of the phone. “Yeah, it’s one of my cats. Something wrong?”

“No, I was just surprised,” you say. “What’s their name?”

“Her name’s Bongsik, she’s back in Korea,” Jeno says shortly. “Okay. So in previous years, they had a masquerade, historical figures, animals, couples costumes, movie characters…”

“It’s basically the Met Gala of sports events,” you say. “Everything’s been done before. Why can’t we go back to the basics? Cobwebs and pumpkins, fake spiders.”

“Isn’t that a bit boring?”

“Doesn’t your nickname mean ‘boring’ in Korean?”

“Ouch,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m just saying, I feel like...well, you know how we both feel. All the alums are coming, we need to impress, right?”

“I guess,” you say. “But everything’s been played out. Let’s be innovative.”

“Okay,” Jeno says pensively. “Let’s say classic Halloween but it’s in...blank.”

“Underwater.”

“Nah, doesn’t really mesh.”

“One man’s opinion. Okay...in space.”

“Doesn’t that sound like it might turn out tacky?”

“Fine. The dark forest.”

“Isn’t that normal Halloween?”

“Okay,” you huff. “Speed round. Halloween in the city, in Candyland, in Wonderland…”

“Wait. Wait. I like that,” Jeno says, sitting up. “Did you say Wonderland? As in, Alice in Wonderland?”

“Yeah,” you say. You stare at each other, wide-eyed, for once on the same page. Creative synergy crackles between you, and you see Jeno’s hand flying furiously, jotting down notes like ‘mushrooms, teacups, butterflies’ on a piece of paper. “But, like, the superior version, which is obviously-”

“-Burton,” Jeno says.

“No, absolutely not,” you say. “I watch strictly Disney classics. The 2-D, pre-2010s slightly sexist ones. They don’t really hold up, but they’re so cute.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure all the alums really want a cute gala,” Jeno rolls his eyes. Annoyance prickles up your spine, and just like that, you want to hit him again. “Look, no offense, but it’s supposed to be spooky. And Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland is perfect, it’s dark, Victorian, could really lend itself to Halloween.”

“I haven’t seen it.”

“You haven’t-” Jeno looks at you, wide eyed, head tilted a bit like a dog. “Oh God, you are so uncultured.

“I don’t have time, okay?” you say, cheeks heating. “If I’m not at the rink or in classes, I’m probably either at the gym or studying.”

If this were a cliche movie or fanfiction, Jeno would probably offer to watch with you, and you’d set aside your differences and forget the prank war and jump right in the sack. But this is life, and Jeno is annoying, and competitive, and _definitely_ not eyesmiling at you cutely as he finishes his Milkis.

“What a sad, sad life,” Jeno says. “Well, watch it this weekend, and if you really don’t like it, we can go with what you want.”

“Does that come with a money back guarantee?”

He tilts his head. “If you don’t like it, we can go with your cutesy Disney whatever. But you have to really and truly dislike it.”

“Fine,” you say. “It’s a deal.”

He shakes your hand, and you’re surprised to feel how rough his palm feels, calluses denoting hours spent at the gym. “So go home, watch at least the first one - there are two - and we can go to the craft store next weekend to shop for supplies?”

“You know where the craft store is?”

“Excuse me, the men’s hockey team throws killer Christmas and Easter parties, who do you think does the decorations?” Jeno says.

“Oh my God.”

“I can out-craft you any day.”

“Bet. I took Home EC and Design in high school. I can’t lose.”

“Lose? You mean like all of your games this season?”

“I really don’t like you sometimes, Lee.”

🏒

 **ME:** yo

 **ME:** i have to watch alice in wonderland tn, wanna come over?

 **NANA:** lmao why

 **ME:** your lovely captain is making me

 **ME:** please

 **ME:** i have hot cheetos and claws

 **NANA:** sorry i have to stay at the house tn

 **NANA** : i’m on kitten duty

 **ME:** louis and leon?

 **NANA:** yeah :(

 **NANA:** u could come over tho? Bring the snackies ofc

 **ME:** an invite to the nxt house? i feel so special!!

 **ME:** i’ll be over in ten. Cool if i bring a friend?

 **NANA:** is she prettyyyy

 **ME:** ehehe

Sunday night finds you sandwiched between Jaemin and Ryujin, floaty from three White Claws and a bongful of indica weed. Leon, one of NXT’s new house kittens, meows plaintively as he snuggles into your lap.

“Okay, it’s official, Johnny Depp is such a daddy,” you say.

“Not this Johnny Depp,” Jaemin wrinkles his nose. “The fuck, he’s, like, pasty and weird here. No, no, like Gilbert Grape or Sleepy Hollow Depp, that’s daddy material.”

“Who’s daddy material?” Lucas ambles in, carrying Bella, the house’s puppy. When he sees you, his face lights up. “Yo, what’s up man?”

He flops down on the couch beside you, throwing an arm around you. “Lucas,” you say, snuggling into his chest. “Puppy, gimme.”

Lucas laughs, placing Bella gently on your chest. She yawns, snuffling into your oversized hoodie. “How’s the prank war going?”

“Oh, you know?” you say. “I thought it was a secret, Nana.”

“After the gochujang cupcakes you had delivered, the whole house knows,” Jaemin says. “You’re not subtle.”

“Like you guys are,” you say, sticking your tongue out. “Don’t worry, I have a grand finale planned.”

“Oh?” Jaemin flips over, propping his chin on one hand. “Can I get a hint?”

“Secrets, secrets,” Ryujin giggles, poking his cheek. He pouts, and she just laughs, cradling her Ryan pillow tighter.

“Disgusting,” you say, nudging your chin at the pair, leaning back into Lucas’s chest.

“Ah, it’s about time Na found a girl,” Lucas says. “I swear he’s been dry for months.”

“Really?” you swivel in his lap. “No way, you Nu guys are all such players.”

“Define player?”

“I don’t know, bringing home a new girl every day of the week, kicking them out with nothing but their heels and a walk of shame down frat row?”

“Not close,” Lucas laughs. “House rules, if we bring girls home, they either stay in our room or a guest room, and we have to walk them home or call an Uber. Oh, and if it’s a choice between the bed, couch, or floor, they always get the bed. Non-negotiable.”

“Really?” you say. “Who wrote that into the charter?”

The door to the kitchen swings open, and everyone looks up. “Anyone seen my phone?” Jeno walks in, wearing only a pair of black joggers and mismatched socks. Round, wire-rimmed glasses take up the top half of his face, but it still takes a moment for him to look up and actually process who’s in the room. He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed as everyone stares at him.

Lucas lets out a low whistle. “Nice look, Lee.”

Jeno just rolls his eyes, walking to the mini fridge and grabbing a seltzer. “Hey, Cap.”

“Jenojam,” you say, smiling sweetly. He laughs, turning to face you, and in your slight state of inebriation, you can’t stop your treacherous eyes from canvassing his body, trailing over his chiseled, veined forearms, his tanned abs, the v-shaped indents disappearing quite sharply into the waistband of his joggers.

He cracks open the can with one hand, mouth twisting in a way that tells you he knows exactly where you were looking. You glare, shaking your head to clear it, but it’s not helped as he walks over, perching on the edge of the couch. The scent of Old Spice and musk (he was in the middle of working out, based on the light shine to his skin) tickles your senses as he leans down, so that he’s on a level with you as he takes a sip.

“Getting any ideas?” he says, breath ruffling your hair.

“What?” you sit up, so fast your head spins. Was he really reading you that easily?

“About the gala,” he says lightly, nodding at the screen. “Like, what you want to get in terms of pieces or color accents. I have ideas, but I obviously want to make sure we’re on the same page and all.”

“I haven’t even finished the movie,” you say, tongue a little thick from the weed. “You’re asking me questions before I even finish, how rude.”

“Yeah, let her finish, dude,” Lucas says, adjusting his arm on you. You don’t think you’re mistaking the mischief in his voice. “Wasn’t it you who pushed all that legislation into the charter about girls staying over and stuff?”

That was him? Somehow, the thought of Jeno-the-Feminist clashes with your normal view of him. Bella squirms on your chest, turning her head to lick Jeno’s hand. He scratches behind her ears, taking another sip of seltzer.

“That charter was written by rich white dudes in the 1950s,” he shrugs. “It only seemed natural.”

“You must’ve had a lot of couch or floor time then,” you tease.

“Nah, Lee’s a cuddler,” Lucas says, poking your waist. “I’ve never heard of any girls sleeping anywhere but his bed.”

A sudden image of Jeno, inky hair spread across a pillow, sharp angles of his face softened with sleep, arm threaded protectively around your waist, hits your brain like a punch. Soft cotton, a slight soreness between your legs, the press of muscle against your bare bac-

Fuck. “I need water,” you say, standing up, legs only a little shaky. “Anyone want anything from the kitchen?”

“Ooh, ooh, cheese puffs,” Jaemin says. “Red cupboard, second shelf down.”

You push open the door to the kitchen, head only pounding a bit. “Get a grip,” you mumble. Walking to the fridge, you grab a cup and fill it from the door filter. Taking a sip, you press the cool glass to your alcohol-flushed cheek. The more time you spend with Jeno, the more your brain becomes muddled. On the one hand, you have the cocky hockey captain who walks around shirtless, but who also crafts and makes sure his frat brothers actually respect their hookups…

A soft buzzing sounds. You pat your pocket, thinking it might be your phone, but then it buzzes again. Walking around the granite island table, you find a few textbooks, a fruit bowl with a massive banana bunch and what looks like a dragon fruit, and then, tucked under the school newspaper, a slim black phone.

Flipping it over, you recognize the pop socket - it’s Jeno’s cat. Bong-something. The one you’d teased him about last week. You open your mouth, ready to call to him that you’ve found his lost phone, when it vibrates again. A certain amount of curiosity prickles your stomach. You really shouldn’t, but the little alcohol monster in your brain who’s been checking out Jeno’s abs and noticing his damn scent makes you look at the lockscreen. A cluster of Kakao messages float in the notification center.

 **MINJI:** ur such a nerd

 **MINJI:** ily

The next is a photo attachment. A picture of Jeno, standing next to a pretty Asian girl. Her face is partially obscured by dark sunglasses, but it’s clear that they’re very affectionate - he holds her tightly to his side, one hand on her waist, the other holding the ankle of a giant teddy bear, slung around his neck. In the background is the Lotte World ferris wheel, gleaming chrome against the blue sky.

 **MINJI:** found this scrolling earlier and thought of you. i know you have people and girls to attend to in the states, i’m probably not enough to get you home this christmas, but think about it.

Jeno has a girlfriend? The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. And the fact that he’s been making suggestive jokes, walking to the rink with a neck covered in hickies, giving you the look that you’re sure melts a thousand hearts, twists your gut. It’s not disappointment, per se, but whatever had been running through your head in the living room now feels cold. Cheap. All that bullshit about respecting women, but he’s still a player, even if it’s an open relationship. Which she seems to be directly alluding to.

It’s a terrible, horrible, invasive thing to do, but curiosity gets the better of you and you open up the rest of the messages - he doesn’t even have a passcode.

 **JENO:** Minji-yah, how’s the weather in Seoul today? The fall leaves are just starting to show where I am.

Attached is a cute picture of him holding up a red maple leaf, eyesmile on full display. The messages continue on earlier.

 **JENO:** Missing you and Bongsik extra today. Will definitely take you back to that cat cafe when I’m home again!

 **JENO:** Just touched down in the States! Feels good to be back, but I miss you already. Will eat a big hot dog and Coke tonight, just to make you jealous.

The messages go on and on - there hasn’t been a day he hasn’t texted her since coming back to school. You don’t go back much further than the fall, but one thing is clear: Jeno is absolutely whipped for her. His words ring with a sweetness, a vulnerability you’ve never seen from him in life, a tenderness that makes your heart skip a beat.

 _Not such a golden boy player now, huh?_ you think savagely. _He’d probably hate it if his team ever found out…_

Then it hits you. This could be your final prank, exposing him - see if they thought he was a hockey god after reading all the fluff. They’ve done worse to you (you were about two seconds from submitting a porn video instead of your anti-vaping PSA to class last week, thanks to someone’s hacking skills) and it’s not like they don’t know about her - there’s no way they don’t know about his girlfriend. But it would be hilarious to take him down a peg or two.

You quickly take out your own phone, snapping pictures of the most embarrassing texts. “Hey, Cap?”

You jump. Quickly sliding the phone back under the paper, you turn. Jeno stands in the doorway, seltzer in hand, shirt still completely missing. “You good? Jaemin asked me to see if you’d been murdered or something. And he says he’s hungry.”

“Oh, right, cheese puffs,” you say, a little breathless. Grabbing the tub, you push past him into the living room. If Lucas sees anything off in your face as you snuggle back onto his lap, he doesn’t say anything.


	2. Part 2

“Get up.” Coach Archambault’s whistle is shrill, right in your ear. You rise, abs burning - the gym shot clock says it’s been nearly seven minutes - and set off at a dead sprint. Hopping over five hurdles, you launch yourself into the air, landing roughly in the sand of the long jump pit. 

“Average.” Coach Kim says, placing a yardstick at your trembling heels. “You’re a goalie, where is the leg power, huh?”

“Up your ass and to the left,” you mutter as you dust yourself off, Lulu leggings stained grey with dust. 

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, I’ll try harder next time, Coach Kim,” you say. Rubbing a stitch in your side, you jog over to the ropes course. Chanyeol (technically Coach Park, but you never call him that) smiles at you as he flips through his evaluation clipboard.

“If it isn’t my star goalie,” he says. You grimace. You won Friday’s game by a small margin, small enough that this 5 AM gym session hasn’t let up at all. “Ready to go on the ropes?”

“In theory,” you say, rolling your shoulders a little, cracking your neck.

“Is Coach going hard on you guys this morning?” Chanyeol says, dropping his voice. 

You grimace. “Something like that.”

“You just beat Harvard last week, jeez,” Chanyeol says, shaking his head. “Okay, well, I think the batteries on my stopwatch are running a bit slow, so if you were to go while I was replacing them, I might be forced to manually report…”

“Oh my God, can you go?” Vivian and her posse have gathered behind you. “I know you goalies are all leg, but you should at least be able to complete this baby course. Captain.”

She adds an unpleasant stress on the title, like you should be ashamed for holding such a place of power and not performing better, but you ignore her. Pulling yourself up onto the platform, dusting your hands with chalk, you take a deep breath. 

“Yeah, Cap, let’s go!” A couple players in matching men’s hockey hoodies jog over to the ropes arena.

“Look at her, she’s so fucking dusty,” one particularly annoying guy yells, dark shaved head gleaming in the dawn sun. 

“Fuck you, Anthony, nobody asked for your opinion,” Ryujin shouts. “Don’t listen.”

By now, a sizable crowd has gathered. Looking down, you can see your teammates’ faces, along with most of the men’s team. Jeno is noticeably absent, and you feel a funny twinge that might be either relief or disappointment. You’d love to show him, serve him right for fostering these competitive assholes, but if you fail…

* * *

“If she falls, what will she be?” a guy calls. “Captain Crunch?”

“Captain Crunch, Captain Crunch,” the chant begins. By now you realize that the entire men’s hockey team is assembled - they must’ve scheduled training at the same time for this very reason, to prank your team. “Captain Crunch.”

Narrowing your eyes, you pop your shoulders once, flex your neck, then walk forward, grabbing the starting pole. With a breath of prayer to the hockey gods, you grip hard and kick out your feet. Swinging once, twice, you launch yourself forward, grabbing the first rope. Your hands slip a little, and you’re forced to grip with your whole body, hugging it rather awkwardly.

“Aw, she’s like a little tree panda,” Vivian calls. 

Gritting your teeth, you swing back and forth, then launch yourself to the next rope. This is called the Tarzan Gauntlet - three swinging ropes, before swiveling monkey bars and a drop dismount. Gritting your teeth, you grip the second rope, undulating your body to create enough inertia to get you to the next one.

One, two, three swings, and you’re airborne, hands outstretched towards the third rope…

The next thing you know, you’re on the ground, no wind left in your lungs, aching limbs spread eagled on the padding. Coach Kim walks over to you, holding the dreaded stopwatch. “Double your last time, and you failed,” she says coldly. 

You stand, wincing, ignoring the shouts of Captain Crunch as you walk towards the bench, where a big cooler of Gatorade waits. Grabbing a paper cup, you flick the handle, watching the blue liquid swirl into it. 

Gulping one, then two cups, you try your best to calm your heart rate, bring you breathing back down, but it’s like everything, the pressure from your team, the catcalls from the boys, the grim faces of your coaches, is all coalescing and imploding around you. Black spots dance before your vision, and you sink to the ground, pressing fingers to your temples.

“Hey, you good?” Someone crouches in front of you, pressing a light hand to your shoulder. Forcing your eyes open, you find Jeno staring at you, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“Fine, no thanks to your goons,” you say, though the words are shakier than you’d like. “Nice plan, invading our workout session like that. I could’ve been killed.”

“Your form was there, so was the strength,” he says. “You just lacked confidence - two more inches and you would’ve gotten the last rope. But I saw you flinch.”

“Oh really?” you snort. “You try swinging on the ropes while your squad of neanderthals calls you names. Maybe you’ll flinch then.”

“Captain Crunch,” he laughs softly. “I kinda like that.”

“Do you want something from me? Or are you just here to gloat?” Somehow, anger has taken the edge off your anxiety, and you place your hands on your knees, pushing up and away from Jeno.

“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” he says. “I’d be worried about anyone falling that far.”

“Yeah, well, I’m fine,” you say, aggressively pouring another cup of Gatorade, but your hand is trembling so badly that it slips from your fingers and splashes onto the grass.

“You were saying?” Jeno says, tone light though he takes a step closer, like he’s waiting to catch you if your knees give out. “Look, that course would’ve kicked anyone’s ass. But you’re clearly shaken. Let me walk you back to your house. I’ll let Moon know so he can tell your c-”

“No, no, I can’t just quit like this,” you say, but Jeno blocks your path as you turn toward the direction of the ropes course. “You don’t know what my team is like, I won’t hear the end of it. Move.”

Jeno stands still, subtly moving to one side or the other as you try to push past him. “Will you give it a rest?” he finally sighs, darting out a hand and grabbing your arm, making you glare. “Look, I know what a panic attack looks like, and you were halfway there when I found you. You’re not in fighting shape, Cap. Ease up, take a rest.”

You stare at him mutinously.

“Fine, if you don’t want to go rest up, I’m not going to make you. In fact, let me make you an offer. I was on my way to pick up some stuff for the gala, come with me. Help me paint and make some decorations, and if you still want to go back out there by the end of the day and murder yourself on the Tarzan Gauntlet, I’ll go with you. Deal?”

You look at him, and find him looking uncharacteristically serious. Gone are the puppy eyes, instead he looks genuinely concerned, but like he’s trying to play casual. He really does care, something in your brain computes, the thought strange and alien. “Fine. But I want your word, if I go with you and paint shit, you’ll come spot me on the Gauntlet later.”

“Done.”

*

The craft store is super hippy and underwhelming, but Jeno seems right at home, grabbing bolt after bolt of silky fabric, a variety of twisty fake trees, silk flowers, cans of paint, bags upon bags of moss for the floor to create a real Wonderland feel. After using the hockey program’s card to pay, you trudge back to campus, arguing hockey stats, and you can feel the tension releasing, the day’s anxieties ebbing away with your now-familiar banter.

“Okay, but the Selke Award should have gone to Bergeron this year,” you say. “Hands down, he’s the best two-way defenseman in the NHL right now.”

“I’ll have to disagree, it’s Erik Karlsson,” Jeno says. “He’s faster, and hits harder, you need that grit.”

“It’s not all about brawn,” you say. “Technique and leadership is also important. Karlsson’s too hot-tempered. Bergeron doesn’t have to rely on checking to get him the goals.”

“Well, now I think you’re just biased toward the Bruins,” Jeno says. “Next you’ll be telling me Brad Marchand is just a scrappy, misunderstood little boy from middle-of-nowhere-Halifax, instead of a dirty rat?”

“You just wish you had the Bruins’ first line on your team,” you say. “Who do you support, anyway?”

Jeno laughs. “You’re going to hate me.”

“Already do. What’s up?”

“Montreal,” he says. “Hockey isn’t big in South Korea, as you can imagine, but I have an uncle who lives in Canada, and he’d always bring back merch when he visited. He was the one who got me to try out for Little League, too.”

Jeno leads you to the backyard of the NXT house, unfurling a tarp before placing the shopping bags on top. “And you like me, admit it.”

“Do I know that?”

He shrugs. “I’ll amend that. You like my body.”

Heat jumps to your face. “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret that you have abs.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on,” you say. “You put that hookup addendum into the charter, plus the girls of Beta Pi and Gamma Gamma love to kiss and tell.”

Jeno rolls his eyes as he begins unloading the paint. “Believe me, if I were going to hook up with girls based on sorority, it wouldn’t be from BP or GG.”

“Oh, so you hook up with girls based on sorority, I see how it is,” you say. “I don’t flatter myself that ITZ is on your list.”

“Depends.”

“On what?” Your heart jumps a little at his expression, cocked eyebrow and smirking lips that send a wave of heat over your skin, despite knowing that he’s playing it up for humor.

“On who’s offering,” he laughs, tossing you a brush. “Anyway, I’m kinda off that train now.”

 _Because of Minji,_ your brain fills in. “Oh? Turning over a new leaf?”

He shrugs. “You could call it that.”

Rolling up his sleeves, he exposes those ungodly forearms again as he opens the paint cans. “Okay, I’m going to start on the mushrooms, you want to start painting the roses?”

You nod, taking the bucket of fake flowers. As per Jeno’s designs, you’ve decided to go with a half red, half white look, like the Red Queen’s garden. You begin to work, scarlet brushstrokes skimming across the white silk. “You know, you’re a little different than I expected, Lee.”

“Mm?” Jeno looks up, head tilted slightly. “How so?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” you say. “But let’s just say I didn’t think you’d have a cat pop socket and have a knack for crafting.”

“People surprise me all the time,” he says. “I enjoy it. Keeps life interesting, you know?”

“Sure.” Dipping your paintbrush into the paint again, you wonder what he expected. If he expected anything from you at all, other than the failing goalie from the other program.

“You know, for how much time we’ve spent together this month, we haven’t actually talked that much, not really,” Jeno says. “I realize that I really don’t know the first thing about you.”

“What’s there to know?” 

“I mean, I assume a lot,” he says. “I don’t even know your major. Most of the times we talk, it just ends up with you telling me to go fuck myself. In some form or other.”

You tilt your head. He’s not wrong, after all - most of your conversations, over text or in person, have been short and snarky, but neither of you have ever really felt the need to change that. The fact that he seems to be offering you an olive branch, out of pity for your breakdown earlier or because of something else, gives you pause. “Business.”

“Choice or force?”

“I mean, I’m an Ivy League athlete, you tell me,” you say. “But you can do pretty much anything with a business degree. The world is built on the buying, selling, and exchange of goods.”

“Well, Bezos, that’s an awfully capitalist way to think about it and I kind of hate it,” Jeno says. “But, I can’t say you’re wrong. I’m an econ major.”

“You’re even worse,” you laugh. “You’re literally taking money management courses, how can you compare me to Jeff Bezos?”

“I never said I wasn’t like that too,” he says. “But I try to balance it out. What’s your minor, then?”

“You’re going to hate me.”

“Try me. I’m not the judgmental type.”

“Really?” you say, squinting at him. “Sports communication and PR.”

Jeno just blinks. “I mean it’s not the most creative combination, but I can see why you would choose it. Sports are about a lot more than just the physical aspect, someone has to babysit the meatheads and make sure they can walk and talk like normal people.”

“Meatheads like you?”

“I’m a double philosophy and poetry minor,” Jeno says. “And I study Mandarin in my free time, but you can be the judge of that.”

You whistle. “I mean, I was just going to say that there’s next to no chance of me going pro, so I figured the next best thing would be managing.”

He cocks his head. “Why couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know, because I’m Captain Crunch, because I’m me,” you say. “You know how it is for women. Nobody watches our pro league.”

“There was a female NHL goalie,” Jeno says. “Manon Rhéaume, she played for the Lightning.”

“And got shopped around men’s minor leagues before being dropped,” you say. “She was a novelty act. They hired her for the press boost.”

“And you wouldn’t take that, even if it meant you could go pro?”

“I’m not a publicity stunt,” you say fiercely. “I’m a badass scholar athlete, just as capable of playing with the big boys as you are. I would be just as good as - or better than - any man if I only got the chance.”

Jeno blinks, and you realize that in your passion, you’ve leaned closer, close enough so that the scent of Polo and Old Spice blows across your nose, that you can almost feel the heat rolling off his skin in the chill October air.

“You don’t have to convince me,” he says quietly, eyes dark and intense on yours. “I already-”

Whatever he was going to say, it’s cut off as he looks down. Your eyes wander after his, and are surprised to find your right hand, plopped right into the pot of red paint.

“Oh, shit, shit,” you pull back quickly, causing the paint to splatter all over his white t-shirt. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry Jen-” his head whips up, as does his brush, and before you know it, your black henley is splattering with white. “Oh, that’s how you want to go?”

Launching yourself up, you reach for him with paint-stained hands. You make a swipe at Jeno, which he dodges, laughing. He swings his brush at you like a sword, and you back up, nearly tripping over his mushroom.

“Watch it!”

You stick out your tongue, lunging for him, but he sidesteps, angling his brush at your stomach, but you drop to the ground, body folding up in a classic goalie stance.

Jeno doubles over laughing, and you take the opportunity to smear paint across his cheek. He stops laughing, eyes wide, scarlet streaking his pale skin. “Oh, you want to play dirty? I’ll give you dirty.”

Sweeping his hand into his own paint bucket, he lunges at you, hands reaching. You roll, leaves crunching under you, but Jeno is relentless. Grabbing your wrists, he pushes them gently towards the ground as he wrestles to get on top of you, knees digging into the ground on either side of your hips. “Stop struggling,” he growls playfully. 

“Let me go, meathead.” He shakes his head, settling more securely on you, though he holds most of his weight away so he doesn’t crush you. 

“If I let you go, will you promise not to paint me anymore?” he says. “I actually liked this shirt.”

“Turpentine,” you say, struggling, but his only response is the tightening of his hands on your wrists. You look up, breathing heavily, and are struck with how close he is. Hair falling dark and messy around his face, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, Jeno is closer than he’s been to you since...ever? Almost on reflex, your eyes drop to his lips, then back up to his eyes, heat lancing through your belly. As you shift, feeling the slide of hard muscle against your body, you know it would be so easy. Lean six inches up, pull him six inches down, and you’d be flush against each other, lips crossing that liminal space. 

How would it feel, to have Jeno in all his duality, to have his tongue trailing across your neck, his hands stroking secrets on your skin? On a purely physical level, you realize, you’ve always at least had it in the back of your mind - he’s hot, you’re hot, you surmise both of you have hooked up with others for less - but he’s a hockey boy. 

A hockey boy, moreover, who gets everything he wants with just an eyesmile and a husky please. But over the past few weeks, over the past hour, something has been unlocked. Through all his sass and softness, the actual possibility of him being more than the cocky golden boy image you’d had painted in your head has become more and more real.

 _Minji,_ your brain growls, and you shake your head. Guys with girls only bring baggage, and that’s the absolute opposite of what you need right now. Even as he grins down at you, even as his body presses into yours, rough palms scraping the soft skin of your wrists, even as that intoxicating scent fills your nose, you know you’re flirting with danger. Pain. That’s all that attachment is, when it comes to guys like him.

Jeno can sense the shift, feel when you stop struggling. “Hey, you good?” he sits back, releasing your wrists. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no,” you say, sitting up as well. Jeno pulls back, neatly extricating his long legs from yours. “I was just thinking...the sun’s almost down. And I still want to go back and finish the Gauntlet.”

He sighs. “You’re still on that, huh?”

“I told you, I’m just as capable as anyone,” you say, standing up and grabbing a rag. 

“Have I ever contradicted you?” Jeno grumbles, though he stands as well, folding up the tarp and moving the decorations under the deck overhang. “You just suffer from performance anxiety. Which I get, completely.”

“You do?” you say, looking at him in surprise.

Jeno nods. “A lot. I puked before every game freshman year.” 

“And now?”

“Only every other,” he deadpans, then laughs. “I’m kidding. I’ve been to see some people and it’s pretty much under control. It just always feels like I’m always running on overdrive, you know? Working so hard to make sure everything’s perfect, to make sure I’m perfect.”

“I feel that. All the time, like you wouldn’t believe,” you say, as you turn down Frat Row, passing the brick porches of house after house. “I’ve been given so much, gotten to do exactly what I love with people I love, that I almost feel like I can’t complain. But there is enormous pressure, that’s part of it. And you have to remember that nobody’s perfect, Lee.”

“But why can’t I try?” he says. “That’s how the saying goes, right? Shoot for the moon, and even if you miss, you will land among the stars.”

His voice rises, almost singsong, and you watch his lips working, forming the poetic words, eyes fluttering slightly closed, eyelashes just brushing the tops of his cheeks. Something pulls in your stomach, something close to understanding, empathy even, a vulnerability that makes you feel dizzy. Scared. Something that makes you want to see Jeno as a real person, instead of the godlike image you’ve had built up for you over the last few years.

“Les Brown, I’m impressed,” you say, the familiar sting of sarcasm grounding you. “Still getting used to you not being a meathead.”

“In this case, I’m pretty sure my halmoni gave me a Hallmark card that said that once,” he says, eyes scrunching up into a smile. “But still. You’re just prejudiced against me because I’m a hockey player.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Shut up.”

You’ve reached the ropes course by now, the setting sun painting the sky in shades of vermillion and navy, framing the innocently swinging ropes in glowing golden light. “It’s not too late to turn back,” Jeno says, as you strip off your hoodie and pull on a lifting belt. Coating your hands in chalk, you begin to climb the ladder to the top of the Tarzan Gauntlet.

“Weren’t you just telling me how I’m a badass with performance anxiety?”

“But you’re willing to do this with me here,” Jeno says. “Don’t I make you nervous?”

You look down at him, at the way he lounges, casual and catlike, against the pole holding up the course. At the way the setting sun paints his face in strokes of gold and ruby, the wind blowing his dark hair just so. You suppose it should - the beauty, the composure, the way you react together like flint and tinder, the snarkiness but also the odd vulnerability that you bring out of each other. But all you can feel is calm composure as he looks up at you.

“I guess we’ll see.” Clapping your hands together, white chalk flying up around you, you launch yourself forward, grabbing onto the first rope. The rough twine scratches your palms, but the slight bit of pain only motivates you further. It’s a little masochistic, you suppose, the way aching muscles, puck-bruised skin, fingers stiff with cold, always makes you push harder. But it’s like you’re betting against yourself, playing a game to see whether you can go further, win bigger. Nothing is impossible, not even this damn ropes course.

Swinging once, twice, you propel your body forward and onto the next rope. Your muscles scream with the full-body effort of hanging out, but you do. You must. Vaguely, you feel Jeno’s eyes on you, analyzing every shift and sway, anticipating every way in which you might fall (and how to save you) but you don’t need it. 

Fixing your eyes on the knotted hemp of the third rope, you undulate your body, creating momentum, beginning to swing like a pendulum until you’re practically kissing the third rope. One, two, three, and you’re airborne again, a brief moment of weightlessness before your palms close around the rope. By now, you know Ryujin and your friends would be screaming, egging you on in all their hockey bravado, but it’s like Jeno knows how important this moment is, that he stays quiet.

Fixing your eyes on the gleaming metal monkey bars, you let that cool calm flood your burning body. Every muscle in your body screams as you begin to swing again, but you shut it off, just for a moment, as you leap towards the bars, hands closing around the cool metal. The monkey bars spin and buck under your grasp as you pull yourself forward, one after the other, until you’re at the very end. This is the hardest part, the part that means you have to trust your body. It’s a short drop, but if you’re even an inch off the landing mat, you could break something.

Looking down, your eyes zero in on the x. One more movement, one more moment of trust in your abilities and your body, and it’s over. Fuck Archambault and your team, fuck the boys catcalling you, fuck anyone and everyone who’s ever told you that you’re too weak. Too slow. That you can’t.

With a sigh, you let go. The wind rushes up around your face, the ground coming up to meet you...and you land softly, right in the middle of the target. The adrenaline stays with you for just a moment, before your muscles turn to jelly, and you sag against the mat. A ringing fills your ears, and you can hear Jeno clapping, feet stirring up grass and leaves as he jogs towards you, but it’s faint. What you’ve done, it feels big, momentous, but your body hasn’t processed it yet.

Jeno stands over you, offering a hand. Taking it, you let him pull you up, chalk and callous brushing as you get shakily to your feet. “You’re a little crazy, you know that?” Jeno says, eyes full of a gentle wonder. He’s looking at you intently, awe and maybe a little fear crossing his handsome face. In this moment, you realize two things: 

One. You’ve really gotten in deep with him. Whoever Minji is, she’s not here, she’s not staring at you like this, she’s not making you feel hot and cold and vulnerable and more alive than you have in a very, very long time. 

Two. For that very reason, you can’t go through with the prank.

“Crazy. Is that good or bad?”

“I’m not sure,” Jeno says, looking down at his hand, now covered in chalk where your palms meet. “But I’ll be sure to let you know.”

*

“I can’t believe I drew Hugh Hefner for the costume game,” you grumble, tugging down the ridiculously short silk robe as you and Ryujin pull on your shoes, walking down the grand staircase of the ITZ house. Ryujin giggles, gathering the tail of her pink Angel onesie in one hand, slinging the other over your shoulder. 

“Well, with any luck, there’ll be a smoking hot Playboy Bunny waiting at the NXT house for you.”

“What are the rules again? Of the costume draw?”

“Everyone going to the party - mind you, it’s not just the hockey teams, it’s NXT and their sister sorority too - drew half of a couples costume. Your job is to find them and get a selfie - the ones who don’t have to fill bottles before practice for the rest of the season,” Ryujin says. 

“You’re so lazy, you’re wearing a onesie,” you complain, poking her pink fuzzy side. “Nobody even knows who Angel is from Lilo and Stitch, why couldn’t you at least have drawn Lilo and had to wear something stupid too?”

“And wear a hula skirt? Not on your life,” she snorts. “Shut up, you make a hot Hefner. Embrace it.”

“Hm,” you huff. “You know, you’d better not get me too wasted tonight. Tomorrow’s the gala.”

“It’s not until 7 PM, and we already stocked up on Pedialyte and black coffee,” Ryujin shrugs. “You remember last year, alumni weekend is always like this - kickoff party, gala, midterm week. I assume you’d rather be hungover for some fancy dress bullshit than for your 8 AM on Monday.”

“I don’t have any 8 AMs,” you grumble, and Ryujin just rolls her eyes.

“You know you love me.”

The NXT house is aglow with lights, bass pumping so loud you can almost feel the vibrations in your legs as you walk up the lawn. You ring the doorbell, as per the instructions on the heavy wood door, and are skeptical whether anyone will be able to hear you, but no sooner have you taken a step back, then the door is thrown open.

Lucas stands in the doorway, wearing golden laurels in his hair, a white leather body harness and angel wings that make him look like a buff, shirtless cherub, but it’s the guy who stands next to him that draws your attention. Jaemin, a red solo cup in his hand, laughing as he pulls up the hood of his-

“Stitch onesie?” you cackle, throwing your arms around him for a hug. “You two are such peas in a pod.”

It takes a moment for Jaemin’s eyes to focus and for him to realize what exactly Ryujin is wearing, but his entire face lights up. “Holy shit!” he crows. “Ryujin-ah, get over here, we need to get a selfie, ah you’re so cute.”

“Let’s leave them to it,” you say, patting Lucas’s elbow. He laughs, threading an arm around your waist as he steers you through the packed living room. 

“Think we really succeeded?” Lucas says, angling his chin at them. 

“Oh, I have no idea,” you shrug. “Ryujin’s hard to read, Nana wears his heart on his sleeve, who knows if it would work out.”

“Are you questioning Cupid?” Lucas pokes you with his golden prop bow. “I’m never wrong. I could tell you your entire romantic future right here, try me.”

“Don’t you have a hot chick in a toga to go bother?” you sigh, nevertheless letting Lucas lead you over to the bar area.

“Already got my photo,” he says, flashing you a picture of him with a pretty blonde as he hands you a beer. “She has a boyfriend though, shame.”

“Ah, Lukie-Bear,” you say, patting his bicep. “I’m not worried.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I hear a lot of girls at this school have feather kinks.”

“Ah, you.” Lucas tugs your sailor hat down over your eyes. “Well, talk all you want, but I wouldn’t be so cocky once you’ve found your Playboy Bunny.”

“Really? Who is it?” you say, taking a large swig.

“Spoilers,” Lucas winks. “I’m the last person to believe in fate, but man. The universe really just threw you a bone. Literally and figuratively.”

“I’m going to pretend you’re not being cryptic and pervy, and just keep drinking.”

A willowy girl wearing a slinky white dress and a blonde Marilyn wig totters over to you. “Hey, Lucas,” she purrs, sliding one finger along the strap of his body harness.

It’s Lucas’s entire being realigns, caveman style, when he sees a potential mate, chest puffing out, a crooked smile sliding onto his full lips. “Hey, Sienna,” he says huskily, hand sliding to her hip. “What’s up?”

“Well, I have been vexingly bored lately,” Sienna says, voice dropping into a kind of old-timey movie accent that’s just a little slurred. “Arthur, James, Joe, that John Kennedy, well, they’re simply not enough for me. Do you think Cupid might be enough for me?”

“He’ll certainly try,” Lucas says, hand sliding lower to cup her ass, making her giggle. “Hey, catch you later, but...don’t wonder off and don’t try the punch, it’d fell a horse.”

Shaking your head, you wave him and his newest conquest off. The party atmosphere is warm, pleasant, the music loud and drinks free flowing. You set yourself against the wall, allowing yourself to people-watch for a little, before Ryujin scampers over.

“Cap, come on,” she giggles, pulling you in the direction of the dining room. “Hockey team pong tourney, I need a partner.”

The dining room is packed with people, but Ryujin maneuvers you to the front. “Hey, Nana, found a partner yet?”

“Yes indeed,” Jaemin says, tugging on someone’s bare arm. “Jeno, get over-”

Whatever is said next, you don’t hear it. Because every sense of yours snaps, all at once, focusing only on the sight before you. Standing next to Jaemin is Jeno, but it’s Jeno as you’ve never seen him before. Tall, tanned, chiseled, wearing nothing but low-slung leather pants and ruffled white cuffs around his neck and wrists. His twinkling crescent eyes are artfully swathed in dark kohl and shadowy glitter, and atop his sleek dark hair sits a pair of lace bunny ears.

_You fucking hate it when Lucas is right._

Jeno’s eyes widen minutely at the sight of you, but the surprise is soon overtaken by a cocky smile. “Well, well, looks like I’ve found my match,” he calls, voice carrying over the chattering crowd and the pounding bass.

“Maybe so,” you say, opening a beer bottle with a flick of your wrist and filling the cups to an arrogantly high level. “But you’re about to lose. Hard. I hope you know that.”

“Just like you’ve lost all your games, Captain Crunch?” one of his teammates chimes in. 

Jeno slings an arm around the guy, squeezing rather hard. “Haechan, what have I said about name calling?”

“Sorry,” Haechan murmurs, trying to wriggle out of the captain’s grasp, but Jeno holds tight. “Sorry, _Captain.”_

Jeno releases him, ruffling Haechan’s hair in a friendly sort of way, but his eyes scan your face briefly as you set up for your first shot. 

The game flies thick and fast, but you barely notice. Maybe it’s the effect of the beer, or the sweltering heat in the dining room, but you feel a little faint, a little breathless. Of course you do, with Jeno’s dark eyes following your every move, watching as he skillfully drinks - and sinks - his way through cup after cup, a playful challenge shining in his dark eyes. It’s like nothing else exists, except you two, battling for dominance, for first place. And that’s the root of this whole thing, isn’t it? Two competitive captains, more alike than they thought, both fighting for the exact same thing, but it’s become more than that. 

You don’t think you’re imagining the look Jeno’s giving you, the way your body reacted to seeing how well you match as a pair, or the tension between you as you watch Jeno tee up his next shot. One cup remains on either side, thanks to your team’s handiwork - mostly yours and his - as Jaemin and Ryujin prove to be equally lacking in beer pong skills, and you watch as he squeezes one eye shut, tongue poking between his teeth.

The tendons in his wrist flex as he moves the ball from side to side, white plastic peeking between his long fingers. You’re sure you’re not the only watching as he pops his neck from neck to side, as he shakes out his shoulders, prominent shoulder muscles moving and shifting as you watch. But you’re the only one he looks at, the only one who causes his eyes to crinkle up like that, makes his lips curl into a smirk as he lines up the shot and, without so much as a second glance, sinks it into your cup.

The room explodes, everyone hooting and hollering, a few bills even changing hands as you chug the last cup. Jeno sidles over to you, one hand brushing lightly over the lacquered wood of the table. “Good game,” he says, and to your surprise, ends with your name, instead of the requisite Cap you’re used to.

“Not too shabby yourself, Lee,” you say coyly.

“I just won, isn’t that my line?”

“Yes, well, I’ve never been the conventional type, have I?” you say, fanning yourself a little in the heat. 

“You’re not wrong.” Jeno chuckles, catching your hand in his. “Also, this place is kinda packed for my liking. Want to get out of here?”

“Depends. Where were you thinking?”

“Just somewhere cooler and quieter.”

You look at him, at the smudging glitter on his cheekbones, the swell of his full mouth, the way he looks at you, dark eyes shot through with just a little bit of heat, an invitation if you want it.

You nod, and Jeno twines your fingers together, pulling you out of the dining room. He starts up the main staircase, stepping over crushed cups, frowning a little at the beer staining the carpets.

“I’m a little buzzed, promise you’re not going to murder me?” you say, as he turns left, pushing open a heavy wooden door.

“Promise,” Jeno hums. You blink in the sudden burst of brightness as he flicks the light switch, revealing a plain yet distinctly decorated room. You know it’s Jeno’s in an instant - it’s not just the scent, the Montreal Canadiens jersey on the wall, the various poetry and philosophy texts scattered across the messy desk. But the plain blue comforter and sheets, the ugly little cactus on the bedside table, the bicycle display over his bed, are all little touches that are just so Jeno. A warmth floods your heart as you look around the room, bits and pieces of the boy behind you all jumping out at you like bright little gems.

“Sorry, I didn’t have time to clean up,” Jeno says, closing the door behind him. Walking over to the mini fridge in the corner, he pulls out two Seltzers and a bag of honey butter chips. “But you looked a little bit faint, so I figured I’d feed and water you a bit, you know, least I could do after handing you your ass downstairs.”

“I wouldn't necessarily say _handed,”_ you say, the lilting edge to your voice surprising even as you walk over, sinking down onto the bed beside him. “I do recall putting up at least somewhat of a fight.”

“Ah, yes,” Jeno says, watching you through half-lidded eyes as you smirk, pulling down the ends of your silk robe. Subtly - but not subtle enough - his eyes linger on the considerable expanse of bare leg, now only inches away from his own.

“But you like that, don’t you?” 

“Hm,” Jeno says it almost as a sigh, eyes still tracing your skin, hands clutching the chip bag. 

“At least, I know I have,” you say, satisfaction bursting in your belly as Jeno’s head whips up, lips parting, gaze falling from your eyes to the glossy curve of your mouth, then back. “All that time we’ve spent together, planning, dreaming, scheming, fighting…”

You shift forward, drawing closer, secretly smiling to yourself as Jeno’s eyes flutter closed, as he leans into your touch. The tension is so thick, it’s almost a tangible force, sending your heart pounding, your head spinning, pulling your bodies together like lodestone and iron. “I’ve loved every second. Question is, have you?”

Jeno swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his pale throat. He’s silent, and for one heartstopping second, you think he’s going to say no. Then:

_“Yes.”_

The affirmation whispers from his lips, low and solemn, and you lean even closer, eyes fluttering closed. Now you’re only millimeters apart, Jeno’s warm breath blowing across your lips, but you know one thing: words are one thing, actions are another, and you’re not going to be the one to initiate. That decision lies with h-

You hear a crunching of chips and a slight groan from Jeno, as his cool hands come up to cup your jaw, lips crushing to yours. It’s like you’re the match and he’s a man made of paper, bending towards you helplessly, kissing you with an almost bruising passion. Flames lick your belly as he moans against your mouth, shifting slightly, clutching you tightly to him. Knocking the horrid Hugh Hefner hat off your head, you throw a leg over him, laughing a little at how enthusiastically he responds, hands squeezing your silk-clad waist, lips parting.

Your tongues twirl together, the passion palpable and heady, heat blooming between your bodies as you grind a little, the silk of your robe sliding against his leather pants. “Fuck,” Jeno breathes, wrenching his mouth away from yours. He looks up at you with that same wonder in his eyes that you saw on the ropes course, the look of a falling man who’s only just realized that he has no parachute. 

_Or maybe, he’s found that parachute already._

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, dropping his head to your collarbone, pressing soft kisses to your sensitive skin. You shift a little, a whine rolling from your throat as he begins to go harder, lips, tongue, teeth scraping your skin, making you shiver. Encouraged by your soft sounds, he bites down on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making you keen and buck against him. “Or maybe you do. And that’s why you do it.”

He moves, suddenly, and you feel the softness of pillows against your head, the down comforter at your back. Jeno leans over you, cupping your jaw once more, the other sliding down, squeezing your thigh gently as he draws it around his hip.

“Why I do what?” you breathe, as his thumb ghosts over your Cupid’s bow.

“Why you fight me so much,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of your jaw. “Why you’re so prickly, your tongue so barbed, every fiber of your being screaming that you want nothing to do with me, and yet…”

Jeno’s lips trail down, presses kiss after kiss to the soft skin of your neck, your collarbone, stopping only at the silken neckline of your robe. “But all told, it seems that you do want me, very much.”

He pulls back suddenly, the cold air hitting your skin like a whiplash. “Jeno?”

“I’m sure by now you can tell where I stand,” he says, shifting, and you can feel the hardness against your leg. “I’ve never been great at hiding how I feel. God knows, Lucas picked up on it and tormented me for weeks.”

“So that’s why he was-” you let out a laugh. “Ah, Lucas. Cupid in and out of costume.”

“Exactly,” Jeno says. “But I just wanted to...I need verbal confirmation, that this is what you want. Because besides being hot and annoyingly witty and - holy fuck, you’re flexible - you can also be confusing. I can’t tell whether this is the party talking, or the costumes, or whatever, but I want to make sure that this is something you want. I will do anything and everything to you tonight gladly, but I need to hear it from you.”

“Jeno,” you sigh, fingers weaving into his dark hair. “You may come from a team of pretty meatheads, you may be wearing a stupid meathead bunny costume, but fuck.”

At the word fuck, you tug lightly, pulling a gasp from him. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I’ve enjoyed spending time with you,” you say “So please, just touch me. Tease me. Feel me up. Kiss me, or I might-”

Your words are cut off as Jeno kisses you again, hard and deep, lips molding to yours as he slides a hand into the belt of your robe. Pulling it open, he makes a noise as he sees what’s waiting underneath.

“History may not be my best subject, but I’m pretty sure Hugh Hefner wasn’t into black lace lingerie,” he says, a little breathless as he drinks in the ridiculous teddy Ryujin had shoved at you earlier that night. Little did you know how useful it might be. “At least not on him.”

“Hm, maybe you’d better correct history then,” you purr. 

Jeno laughs. “You really are dangerous.”

He turns his attention to the intricate lacing and silk, but only manages to pull the straps down enough to expose your breasts, pushing the delicate lace covering your wetness to the side. “Sorry, I’m not patient,” he murmurs, but your responding taunt is cut off as he drops his head, lips closing around a nipple as he sinks a finger into you.

You moan as he begins to pleasure you, moving one longer finger in and out, gauging exactly the places that will make you shake and moan, adding a second as he switches sides, lavishing attention on the softness of your other breast. Jeno works your body like he’s known it for years, pulling in and out, thumb teasing across your clit, crooking his fingers right up into your g-spot until you’re drawn up so tight, little gasps and whimpers leaving your throat, fingers sunk into his bicep as you scrabble for something to ground you, to anchor you as your body rises, heat and pleasure rolling through you as you approach your peak, a buzzing filling your ears, Jeno’s name leaving your mouth like a prayer, a chant, a curse, all at once.

_“Fuck, Jeno.”_

With one last grunt, Jeno bites down on a spot just over your breast, pushing his fingers deep inside you, thumb pressing to your clit in earnest, and then it’s over. You come apart with a sharp cry, head thrown back, fingers clenched tightly in the sheets, heat and light and a deep, breathtaking pleasure overtaking your body and burning away all else.

The world comes back into focus as you blink your eyes open, watching as Jeno wipes his fingers with a tissue, pushing back his sweaty hair with the other hand. I’ll give you a minute, his eyes say, though one look at the tenting in his pants and you can already feel everything building up again. As you lie back, taking a breath, something catches your eye: the glowing screen of your phone, nestled in the pocket of your robe. Snatching it, you read the flood of messages in the lock screen.

 **RYUJIN:** hey cap, when are we releasing the pics?

 **RYUJIN:** i have them all hooked up to the display like we talked about

 **RYUJIN:** cap?

 **RYUJIN:** fuck i think they’re about to use the tv to watch rick and morty

 **RYUJIN:** i’m doing it now, get down here or u’ll miss it

 **RYUJIN:** where tf r u lol it’s starting now!!!

“Oh no. No, no, no,” you cry, pulling your robe on. Scrabbling around for the captain’s hat, you grab it and your phone, bolting from the bed.

“What is it?” Jeno says quickly, grabbing his bunny ears from where they’d fallen. “Did I hurt you, what-”

“No, no, it’s nothing to do with you,” you say, wrenching open the door and sprinting down the staircase, Jeno in toe. Though in truth, it has everything to do with him. This is made abundantly clear as you burst into the media room, just in time to see the first screenshot appear on screen.

 **JENO:** Minji, I love you so much. Don’t forget that while I’m away, okay?

You watch in horror as the nightmare of your own creation unfolds on the frat’s flatscreen TV. It plays out like a meme compilation, text after text popping up with goofy reactions and stupid sound effects. You don’t dare look at Jeno as the video draws on, the laughs growing more raucous, and by the last title card, **GOLDEN BOY JENO LEE BEING CAPTAIN OF THE SIMP SQUAD FOR FOUR MINUTE STRAIGHT,** the room is howling.

“Nice look, Lee!” crows one of his teammates. 

“What’s that noise? The crack of a whip? Captain’s so fuckin’ gone!”

The taunts fill the room, buzzing in your head like angry bees, but as you turn to look at Jeno, it might as well be dead silent. His face is paper white, hands clenched around the back of a chair, and as he turns to face you, you can see unshed tears burning in his dark eyes. “Get out,” he says quietly. Two simple words, but the broken, hoarse quality of his voice, the stiffness in his body as he pushes away from the chair, stomping down the hallway, is enough to make your blood run cold.

“Hell of a prank,” a tall boy claps you on the back, grinning. “You really did pull out all the stops for the last run, eh?”

“That’s got to be the funniest shit I’ve seen in years,” another player giggles. “I had no idea Lee was such a fucking softie. Probably still sleeps with a teddy too.”

A bitter taste fills your mouth. In all the excitement of planning the gala and getting ready for the party, you’d forgotten to tell Ryujin one very important thing: not to release the video.

Because how could you, after getting to know Jeno in all his vulnerability, Jeno who thinks of honey butter chips instead of hookups, Jeno who just now had kissed you breathless and turned your body to putty with just a few strokes of his fingers?

Pulling your robe around you, you put your head down and sprint for the door. The cool air ruffles the thin silk, raising goosebumps on your skin, taking what little residual beer buzz you had and blowing it away. What the fuck did I do? 

“In all the years we’ve been friends, I’ve known you to be many things. But cruel was never one of them.” You turn, glittering starlight and neon lights throwing the figure into sharp relief. Jaemin stands behind you, arms folded. 

“It was a stupid prank,” you say, words small and hollow. “I-I meant to tell them not to do it, but I forgot-”

“I don’t fucking care, what did or didn’t happen,” Jaemin says, voice deadly calm. “Do you have any idea what this will do to Jeno?”

“So he’s a softie. So he had a thing with...I don’t know who she is, some chick back in Seoul,” you say. “I would think you guys would be high fiving him for being such a Casanova here while still playing hou-”

“ARE YOU THAT STUPID?” Jaemin roars. “That girl, the one who he texts, calls, thinks about every day is sixteen, and her name Lee Minji. His sister.”

Holy. Fuck. Suddenly everything starts to fall into place, all the gaps and questions you’d ever had slowly oozing into your mind like quicksand. Why she knew he wouldn’t be coming home, why he shamelessly romanced half the student body while sending her texts like that, why he treated her with such kindness and tenderness that you’d never seen in him. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Jaemin says. “He never talks about her...I’m his roommate and it took almost six months for him to even mention anything about his home life.”

He runs a hand through his silvery hair. “It cuts him up, being so far away from her, especially when his parents are so hard on both-”

Jaemin cuts off, kicking up a pile of dead leaves. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. There’s fun pranks, there’s stupid pranks, there’s even mean-spirited pranks, hell, were it literally anyone else’s texts I think I could’ve accepted that it was all for the prank war. But what you did...it’s not any of those. I can’t blame you for not knowing, I can’t blame you for wanting to prank us back after everything you did. But I do blame you for going through with it, because even knowing none of the backstory, you’ve ripped apart my best friend tonight. You crossed a damn line, and I hope you know that.”

With that, he spins on his heel, stalking away up the damp lawn, leaving you in a shocked, numb silence, one thought thrumming through your head: what the hell did I do?

*

The night of the gala blows clear and cold, but you’re sure the goosebumps on your skin, the sweat slicking your palms, has nothing to do with the chilly Halloween forecast. For the past hour you’ve smiled, laughed, shaken hands, met countless alumni who have all praised your hockey prowess, and pledged donations to the program, promising with a wink that they’ll keep an eye on your career.

“-very pleased with your progress,” Minhyuk Lee says, smiling genially. A former defenseman for your university, now junior manager of the newly-formed Seattle NHL franchise, he’s by far one of the biggest names at the event. “Both of you, captains in your sophomore year, there has to be something in the water here.”

“Well, you used to attend here as well, so I can only imagine,” you say brightly. Minhyuk laughs, and on his other side, Jeno affords a small smile.

You cast a small glance at him, because things have been eerily normal tonight. Though hosting duties have kept you far apart, every time you’ve been pulled into the same conversation, he’s been nothing but civil. The memory of his face, white and drawn, at the broken sound of his voice last night, puts you ill at ease.

“Honestly, I envy the way you two seem to work so well together,” Minhyuk says. “The gala is spectacular, the teams seem to get along well, I can only imagine how it translates onto the ice. Unfortunately, my contacts only go as far as the NHL, but you…”

He turns to you. “You said you’re a business major?”

You nod.

“Well, perhaps if the women’s league isn’t quite to your liking, you’d consider interning in ours,” he says. “We have a summer program open to rising juniors and seniors that often turns out full time employees. Shoot me an email if you apply, okay?”

Minhyuk hands you a card. You open your mouth to say thank you but he’s already turned to Jeno. “So, I hear your goals well outstrip your GP, and your PIM are quite low, which is surprising. With the draft coming up, I would hope that you-”

Recognizing your dismissal, you nod, pasting a smile onto your face as you turn away. Jeno’s lack of emotional distress seems a bit odd, given what Jaemin had told you, but with any luck, you’ll be able to find him and apologize properly after the gala. The rest of the night blends together, coalescing into a three course meal - Korean-American fusion, made specially by the catering service Jeno hired - and you’re just looking at the grand clock over the ballroom as a clinking of a fork on crystal sounds.

“And now, a few words from your peer-nominated speaker, Jeno Lee,” Coach Gagner calls. Jeno stands, buttoning his blazer, silver watch flashing as he skillfully threads the button through the top loop. He’s really so handsome in the candlelight, no trace of yesterday’s revels or anguish in his face or posture. Instead of choosing a dark suit and tux like his teammates, he’s chosen a white suit, tieless and open around the neck. His hair is brushed but not gelled, swooshing across his brow in a way that makes you remember exactly why you hated him in the first place. _Hated. Hate?_

“So firstly, I believe many thanks are in order,” Jeno says. “To the alumni who have come with their continued and amazing support, to the athletic facility managers, trainers, coaches, who all make it their mission to make us shine on the ice. To the players who show up each and every day, giving their everything to one of the most competitive hockey programs in the country.”

He casts a glance around, a small smile curling his lips. “When I first came to this university, I thought I knew the measure of hockey players. I thought I knew their walk, their talk, even their expansive slang lexicon.”

A slight laugh ripples through the audience. “Well, it turns out international school and a handful of training camps isn’t enough to understand the brain of the American sports team. One thing specifically that confused me was the phrase: teamwork makes the dream work. I say this with complete seriousness, it took me a bit to first understand the phrasing, and then the deeper meaning behind it. But it’s something I’ve taken to heart.”

Jeno pauses, taking a sip of water. “Excuse me, I’m a bit parched. Sorry, where was I? Teamwork. Being a team doesn’t just mean putting on a jersey and stepping onto the ice with a group of people. You can be a supremely talented group of players, the best in the world, you can win medal after medal, even hoist the Stanley Cup, but it all amounts to nothing if you lack one thing: trust.”

With a painful thrill, you watch as he continues, hands folding together. “You can share meals with someone, spend hours working on a common goal, watch their triumphs in the gym or on the ropes course, confide some of your deepest anxieties and desires to them, but does that make you teammates?”

You swallow, mouth suddenly very dry. “I’m going to circle back to that question in a moment, but first, I’d like to share a personal story. I come from a family of four - my parents, myself, and my little sister Minji.”

The room is so silent, you could hear a pin drop. Glancing, you find various degrees of shock, interest, even disbelief on the faces of your classmates. “My parents both work in the corporate sector, and as such, haven’t always had the time to parent us. Growing up in Seoul, I’ve worn many hats raising Minji, from a chef, a nanny, a math tutor, a chauffeur, even a pink sparkly unicorn in my sister’s younger years.”

The assembling crowd laughs, relaxing into the story. “In my own life, I’ve always been the oldest son, the athlete, the boy with the parents who are never home but call demanding monthly progress reports. It’s shaped me into who I am today, both positively and negatively, and even if I’ve found it to be hard, unpleasant, everything that’s been done has gotten me to where I am today.”

Jeno smiles, though it now seems a little forced. “Now, you may be asking, how does this relate to teamwork? You’ve basically just gone on record saying you have strict absentee parents and have been a single dad to your sister. Well, here’s the thing. It’s like hockey. Life, really, is all hockey, if you think about it. Moves, countermoves, constantly studying and training to be better, and even when the board hits zero and a winner is crowned, are there really ever any winners? No one is ever satisfied with just one victory, so they keep pushing. There’s no real way to win life, so you go on. You look for the next goal, the next small win. And always, you have your support network, your family - your team, so to speak - by your side. And while I can’t always be happy with the choices I make as a son, a brother, a hockey captain, I know one thing is true: they will always be honest.”

It’s like the air whooshes from your lungs, like the ballroom is beginning to tunnel, to close in, as Jeno continues. “As hard as family and hockey can be, as much as I push and push for personal excellence, perhaps to my detriment at times, I can take it. But one thing that will always break any team, any family unit, is dishonesty. Leading someone to believe that you feel one way, when really, you feel another. Using someone as a stepping stone, a way of settling the score, whether that’s as big as nepotism or as small as a prank war.”

Jeno is still carefully, horribly avoiding your gaze, but you can feel the words, striking you like needles, the eyes of all the players in the room as they realize the meaning behind his words. “As a captain, I feel as if my personal and athletic life meet - I must be a son, a brother, a father, a leader, all in one. I always try my hardest to make the best decisions for the team and myself, and to be honest with myself and others. I cannot say whether this runs true for everyone afforded my position, but I would think that someone who is afforded that power - over bodies, minds-”

And here, he does look at you, and for the first time you see the shadows in his eyes, the absence of his normal gentle smile. “-hearts, should not squander and abuse it. I am not the best person, but I strive to be. As we all should, as scholars, athletes, men, women, nonbinary humans who have to live and coexist upon this earth together. We should always try to be our best.”

Jeno inclines his head, sitting down among ringing applause. All the alumni look very moved, some wiping their eyes, but you can’t miss the narrowing of undergraduate eyes, the daggers thrown at you as hockey players from both programs whisper and hiss. After a short remark from the head coaches of both programs, the gala wraps up. As the people begin to filter out en masse, you desperately crane your neck, looking above the crowd for Jeno. He’s nowhere to be found, however, so you shrug on your coat and head outside.

A heavy shoulder knocks into yours. “Nice fucking going, Captain Crunch,” a hockey player hisses. “You really did deal him the lowest blow, didn’t you?”

“You’re a real bitch, exposing his sister like that.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

You hunch down into your coat, every word horribly true and hurtful as you do you best to walk quietly back towards frat row. The taunts follow you, right up to the ITZ house, where you find a lone figure sitting on the porch.

Ryujin raises her head at your approach. Her eyes are bloodshot, her makeup smudged, and you can already feel the hostility radiating off of her as she looks up at you. “I never would have done it,” she says quietly. “I had no idea what any of the screenshots meant, I thought it was a joke. But you knew, didn’t you?”

“Ryujin,” you say, feeling something flutter and ache in your chest. “I didn’t know, I swear, and I meant to call it off. But I…”

“You spent a month with him, you had access to the screenshots, how could you not have known?” Ryujin says. “I’ve stuck with you always, I’ve defended you against the team, the coaches, those pricks on the boy’s team. But this? This is so beneath you.”

She jerks up, stalking to the heavy wooden door of the house. “I would do a lot for you and the prank war, but pretending to like a guy just so you can find and expose his biggest secret? That’s just cruel.”

Ryujin jerks open the door, slamming it hard behind her. A whole litany of words, of excuses and apologies and curses bubbles up in your throat, but only one coherent thought stays. “I was never pretending,” you say quietly, which is simultaneously the best and worst part of this whole fucking thing.

*

If you were going to describe the rest of the fall and early winter, the best thing you can probably say is: productive. With the entire hockey program hating you, not to mention the wild rumors flying of what exactly you did to everyone’s golden boy Jeno Lee (the worst have you exposing his nudes on OnlyFans, posting your sex tape on PornHub, that sort of thing), you’ve thrown yourself deep into hockey. Every sore muscle, every goal saved feels like your penitence, punishing yourself for being so fucking stupid. And though everyone is loathe to admit it, you’ve singlehandedly been pulling the team into winning margins. Whispers of a playoff slot abound, but certainly no one is congratulating you for it.

The rafters seat is cold, even for January, but at least it’s relatively anonymous. The crowd screams and gasps at the gameplay down below, but you barely find it in you to care, as you watch the tiny dot wearing a J. Lee jersey (not to be confused with M. Lee, or H. Lee) skate up the ice. 

Every time you’ve seen Jeno around campus, he’s seemed unruffled, laughing with his cohort of handsome hockey friends, appearing on story after story of drunken weekend partygoers. Truth be told, he seems to be even more outgoing than before, grinding on and making out with just about everything on legs. But the one person he refuses to interact with is you - you could fall down dead right in front of him, and he wouldn’t notice. He refuses to acknowledge your very existence, even in your shared Intro to Confucian Principles seminar, he studiously avoids speaking when you do. It hurts like a bitch, but is it less than what you deserve?

You scowl. Tit for tat, he’s probably done you worse, turning just about everyone against you while gaining sympathy as the wronged man. But as angry as you are, whenever you think about what he’s done, the haunted look on his face, the tears shining in his eyes, the brush of his lips on y-

“Is this seat taken?” You look up, blinking in surprise as you see who it is. Coach Archambault stands above you, wearing her signature blue tracksuit and fluffy winter beanie.

“No,” you say, puzzled, as she sits down before you’ve even finished speaking.

Archambault settles in, watching the game below with a critical eye for a while before speaking. “Do you know what it’s like to be the most hated person in the hockey program?”

“Um…”

“I hear the whispers, the nicknames,” she says placidly. “How you call me Archambitch, Ice Queen, all manner of names. All because of how hard I am on you.”

You say nothing. Probably smarter that way.

“I push you to the brink and I never apologize,” she says. “And you know why? Because I was just like you, once. Young, hungry, so sure I could push and push and be the best, and you know what? I was, once. I won gold with Team USA, I proved my mettle in the NWHL, and when it came time to hang up the jersey, I got a job coaching one of the best collegiate hockey programs in the world. But you know how I got there?”

You shake your head.

“I stuck to my guns. Hockey is a man's world, and if you play by their rules, apologizing, explaining why you do what you do, being soft and cooperative, you get nowhere. Better you learn that now and become my soldiers here, so you’re ready when the real world hits you,” Archambault says. “And I’ve made my peace that not everyone will like me for it, in fact some of you hate me for it. But I’m okay with that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” you say quietly.

“I’ve heard the rumors around campus,” Archambault. “I don’t want to know what you did, or why, but I do know that it’s eating you up. I’ve seen the training logs, you’ve trained harder and longer than anyone in the program, but you’ve done it alone. I can see the way your team treats you on the ice, I know they’re mad. But right now, you’re one of, if not the top, goalies in the Ivy League. Keep up like this and you’ll probably be offered that contract. But would you be okay with that? Going pro and knowing none of your former teammates will cheer you on? Knowing that your signing ceremony will be alone, all because of one stupid mistake you made at a college party?”

“It was more than one-”

“I told you, I don’t want to hear the details,” Archambault says sternly. “But just know...if you’re going to be painted as a monster, whether you’ve earned it or not, you need to be okay with the consequences or do something about it. I’ve made my bed, you haven’t.”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

“Because the whole time I’ve been talking, your fist hasn’t unclenched once and you haven’t been able to take your eyes away from the players,” Archambault says. “Or, rather, one player in particular.”

She stands, giving you that imperious coach look she’s so famed - and hated - for. “I don’t care about your personal life, so long as it doesn’t make it into my rink,” she says. “But wallowing in whatever it is you’re wallowing in, pushing like a maniac to fill a void, is going to take its toll. So come to my next practice either wearing a badge of acceptance or apology. I don’t care which.”

Archambault strides away down the row. You stare, numb in both emotions and because your hands are freezing, and are only drawn back to the game as you hear a huge thump, followed by the screaming of the fans. 

Looking down, you see a cluster of striped referees, gathered around a fallen player. Looking at the Jumbotron hung over center-ice, you watch the replay - Mark Lee, skating the puck up center ice, executing a perfect toe drag as he banks the puck behind the net, passing to an oncoming player. But the player never makes it. In a flash of scarlet, the big Cornell defender slams into Jeno, knocking him against the boards with a sickening crunch. Jeno falls, helmet hitting the ice, right shoulder splayed awkwardly. 

Down on the ice in real time, Jeno lies motionless. A hot, sick feeling flashes through you - there have been hockey players killed by injury-induced brain bleeds, others who have suffered permanent motor damage. The thought of a world without Jeno, and moreover, a Jeno who dies thinking you used him to get even for a stupid prank war, wells up inside you. No. As Archambault said, you either have to make peace or make up. If he wakes up, you’ll pluck up all the courage you’ve been lacking for the last few months and apologize, damned be the consequences, but you can’t live with yourself anym-

Down on the ice, Jeno sits up, and shakily gets to his feet, to tumultuous applause. Jaemin and Mark skate over, helping him off the ice, and he disappears down the tunnel to the locker room. You shake your head, the intensity of your emotions overwhelming. _Hockey players get knocked down all the time, what were you thinking?_

But the burn of your resolution stays in your chest, and it’s this that carries you down towards the locker rooms after the game, pushing through the various drunken students and puck bunnies who clamber for a glimpse of the men you know all too well.

You weave through the throng of people, paying no mind as people glare, stepping aside as you push through and run down the hallway. “Miss, you can’t be down here,” a security guard says, yawning around his giant Dunkin cup, but you ignore him.

Pushing through the swinging doors emblazoned with your school’s crest, you run down the hallway to the locker rooms. Most of the team has already left (the attendance board outside the locker room shows as much) but Jeno’s name card is still firmly in place.

Pushing open the door, you’re greeted by the sight of the captain himself, shirtless from the waist up in his locker, grimacing as the sports medicine doctor runs gloved hands over his right arm. “It’s not dislocated, just a bone bruise,” the doctor is saying. “With that, plus a mild concussion, I’m taking you out of practice for the next month, and I’m going to want you in a red no-contact jersey during practice after that, just to make sure you don’t reinjure.”

“Great,” Jeno says, attempting a smile, but his voice is strained, face pale, gripping the wooden lip of the locker with his other hand. Whether it’s physical or emotional pain, you can’t say. 

The doctor hands him an ice pack. “I’m going to write you a prescription for an as-needed painkiller that’s a little stronger, but Advil and ice should do the trick unless the swelling gets really bad. You’re young, you’re healthy, you’ll bounce back fast, Jeno, don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” he says, gritting his teeth as he presses the ice pack gingerly to his arm with his good hand. The doctor nods, stripping off her gloves before walking towards the door.

“Oop, sorry,” she says, giving you only the smallest of puzzled looks as she sidesteps you and exits the room. Jeno’s head jerks up, and it’s like all the air has gone from the room. Like time is stopping, fracturing into pieces, nothing existing in the liminal space except for the hard twist of his mouth, the intensity of his dark eyes as he stares at you, face unreadable. It’s also at this moment that you realize his hair is shorter than you last saw it, platinum blonde rather than black. Dyed for the playoffs, he’ll shave it if they lose, keep if they win as a sort of trophy. 

“Are you okay?” you say, voice timid yet also way too loud for the silence.

Jeno stands, walking over to the sink and grabbing a pill bottle from the First Aid kit. Shaking two Advil into his hand, he swallows them dry, back to you. “Why do you hate me?”

“I-” you swallow, hard. “Jeno, I don’t hate you. About Min-the pictures, there’s nothing I can do to excuse that, and I am so very sorry. If I had known, I never would have done it, but I know that’s not a good enough apology-”

Jeno laughs softly. “All my life, I’ve always been judged,” he says. “For my face.”

He turns, walking over to his gear cubby, sitting down on the bench. “For my athletic prowess, my body. People come at me all the time with these thoughts, assumptions. Because of what they’ve heard, they expect me to be...I don’t even know, they just expect me to be _the_ Jeno Lee. But you never did.”

Jeno looks at you, and for once, he lets you see into him, really see, at all the hurt and pain boiling behind his dark eyes. “You treated me like I was any other guy on my squad of - what do you call us, meatheads? - always giving me a hard time, never putting up with my bullshit. It infuriated me as much as it fascinated me. And as much as I hate to admit it, I started to think about you more and more. How much I liked teasing you, making you punch me on the arm if I’d said something stupid, how much I admired your tenacity and leadership on the ice, how under all the prickles, you’re actually really smart and thoughtful, how when I went to sleep, I’d imagine you. Your eyes, your lips, teasing me in a way that just made me want you more. I opened up to you about my anxieties, my dreams, I was so close to telling you about Minji and everything when you decided you wanted to go back to the ropes course.” 

Jeno takes a shaky breath. “Then, when we were alone at that party, I thought, how lucky am I? I’ve met someone who really gets me, physically and emotionally, who I finally feel like I can be myself around, but then you released the video. And I realized, this whole time...you’ve played me for a fool. Why else would you have played nice, unless you could somehow use me for your master prank? Why else would you distract me, giving them time to set up the video and then leave just in time for me to see it?”

He looks at you, boldly, coldly, his impassive face at odds with his impassioned words. “So I’ve come to the conclusion that you hate me. Because I can’t think of another reason why anyone would be so cruel and uncaring towards someone who tried to set aside their differences and actually make a friendship, or whatever it is I thought we had.”

Jeno closes his eyes, leaning against the backboard of his hockey locker, like he’s finally gotten a great weight off his chest. As you look at him, all the unsaid words, the unshed tears, threaten to well up and overwhelm you.

“Jeno,” you say softly. “I don’t hate you.”

He shakes his head. “Then why?”

You take a breath. Walking over to him, you stand in front of his locker, just as you had all those months ago as you accused him of tossing your gear in the shower. “I don’t hate you, but that means jack shit when I’ve acted as I have. Not only to you, but to my team, myself, the program, everyone. All because...all because I was scared. And jealous. And completely took it out on you.”

You close your eyes, sinking to your knees as if in penitence, looking at the floor to avoid his gaze. “When we first met, I was in a bad place. My team hated me, my coaches treated me like dirt. I was the captain of a team with the worst record in twenty years, and even if I wasn’t, there’s still little to no chance that I’d ever be able to go pro, and even if I did, no one would care because I’m a woman and nobody watches the NWHL,” you say evenly.

“And so when I saw you, the golden boy with NHL recruiters calling and girls throwing themselves at you, I assumed it was because you were pretty. You were outgoing. And most of all, because you were a man and hockey is a man’s game. And I hated you for it,” you say. Jeno closes his eyes, a muscle working in his jaw, but something, maybe the reckless spirit that made you march down here in the first place, the feeling that you need to get this out now or you never will, makes you reach forward, catching his chin in one hand.

Jeno’s eyes flash open, but he doesn’t push you away. He remains stock still, watching you carefully. “So yes, I did plan on getting to know you with the ulterior motive of finding something at fault,” you say. “I did take those screenshots because I thought that you having a secret girlfriend or something, writing texts so against your normal character, it was a good way to get back at the way I felt you’d wronged me. Just by existing, I felt like you’d stolen the respect, the validation, the acknowledgement as a hockey player that I’d lost.”

Jeno swallows, averting his eyes, and you push on. “But as I got to know you, I realized that I was wrong. Never once did I expect you to be so funny, so smart, to love cats and crafting as much as you loved being on the ice, and I realized that everything you’ve done, you’ve worked so hard for. Even if it doesn’t look like it. And by the time the party rolled around, I’d resolved that I didn’t care. You could have a secret girlfriend or hundreds of secret girlfriends, I didn’t care, I chose to be selfish and just live in the moment with you. If it’s any consolation, I’d planned to text Ryujin to call off the prank, but I was...occupied. Joyously. And by the time I got her texts, it was too late and what you saw happened.”

Jeno nods.

“And then, at the gala, everything you said was true,” you say. “No matter what, I’d betrayed your trust, and I needed to own up to it. But then everyone turned on me, and so I got scared. Defensive. Fell right back into my pit of self pity that I’d been in when you met me. But today...seeing you on the ice, wondering if I’d get the chance to make this right and apologize, I realized that I had to at least try. But I’ve been a bitch, you didn’t deserve to be hurt in the way I hurt you, and if you just want to hate me now that you’ve heard why, I get it. I just figured, better make my bed and at least be honest when I’ve hurt someone.”

Jeno looks at you, really looks, dark eyes solemn and searching. “Have you ever thought about what it’s like to be treated like a golden boy?” he says. “Do you know what it’s like for people to judge you before even meeting you, to have girls brag about bagging me? Like I’m some sort of prize?”

His long fingers ghost over your cheek, cupping it lightly. A would-be tender gesture that sends furious shivers down your spine. “What you said is true. People come at me all the time with these thoughts, assumptions. Because of what they’ve heard, they expect me to be...I don’t even know, they just expect me to be _the_ Jeno Lee. But you…”

He closes his eyes, head bowed against the cage of his own arm. “They judge you based on this.”

Jeno points to your heart. “They have to actually take the time to learn, all your quirks and eccentricities and your wit, they have to know it all before they can know you.”

He’s close, so close now that a move forward on either of your parts would bring your lips together. Your face heats as you realize you’re thinking about this at a wildly inappropriate time, that the push and pull and tension that you haven’t felt since that night in his room shouldn’t be slipping over you, as slowly and surely as the permafrost coating the rink outside, but it is. And you hate it and yourself for it.

“And what do you know about me?” you say softly.

“You are one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met,” he breathes. “All this time, I’ve tried so hard. Tried to set aside our team rivalry, ignore whatever chip on your shoulder you had about working with me, tried to be friendly. You say you’re messy, you say people dislike you, you say it’s because of your mistakes on the ice, or your low save percentage. But it’s not.”

There’s no anger, no malice in his voice. “It’s because you’re so damn stubborn, you won’t let people in. You deflect with jokes and sarcasm and don’t give people the time of day if they make you feel insecure in any way. I haven’t missed how competitive you are with your own players, let alone my team. You’re a mess, but you’re a mess of your own doing. The way they turned against you, that was partially my doing and I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused in that respect, but the pieces were already in place.”

You feel tears beginning to sting behind your eyes, a lump forming in your throat. “Jeno-”

“But even though you’ve hurt me, I’ve hurt you, I can’t forget everything else,” Jeno says. “I can’t forget the fun we had planning the gala, the way you looked at me like I was just another guy, the way I respond when I’m around you. And it’s horrible, and selfish, but I just wish…”

“What do you wish?”

“You know that day we got Korean food?” Jeno says. “When you surprised me, knowing the menu, when you called me out for being an ass about the yearbooks and were so vehement about Alice in Wonderland. I remember my sister telling me once that she hated the girls I usually dated. Quiet, nice, good girls who I thought would measure up to my parents’ mania. And I was thinking how much she’d approve of you, to be honest. That night, walking you home, I let myself pretend that it was a normal dinner, a date, that I’d be taking you out next Friday and devising a way to steal a kiss from you.”

“But then we started talking about hookups,” you say.

“I haven’t forgotten how much you like guys with calves,” he chuckles. “But I wish I could go back to that night. I wish we could’ve been this vulnerable under a normal setting.”

You pull back, panic welling in your chest. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Jeno bursts out. “But it...it may take a little while for me to process, to figure out how we can start to repair whatever this...would, could, should, I don’t, want it to have been. Because as crazy as it seems, I want to.”

“Then I really should leave you alone.”

“I don’t want to be left alone.”

The declaration hangs between you, soft and tangible, then it’s like the switch flips, and you’re bending towards each other, helpless. Your lips, bodies, every part of your presses together, but it’s not soft. Vulnerable. Nothing like the way you’ve been speaking. No, the way Jeno pulls you to him, grabbing a fistful of hair so hard it almost hurts, the way his lips slot against yours with bruising force, the way your nails bite into the shoulder of his good arm, the way you slip onto his lap, grinding mercilessly against him, it’s like your bodies are showing the anger your words hadn’t been able to express.

_Teeth, sinking into your soft lips - this is for lying._

_A hand, tugging his hair to expose his pale throat, littering his skin with hickies - this is for turning them against me._

_A kiss, because despite what we’ve done to each other, I still want you._

A fumble of hockey gear, a hurried grab for the condom in his gym bag (you’ll tease him later for carrying condoms that way, but for now it doesn’t matter), and then you’re guiding him between your legs. Jeno moans quietly, face tucked between your breasts, eyelids fluttering at the sensation of you stretching around him. You still, the logistical ramifications of sloppily-prepped, half-dressed sex in the cramped confines of his hockey locker starting to hit, but as your body adjusts, taking him in deeper, all logical thought flies from your mind.

Jeno’s bad arm slides around your waist, steadying you as you begin to ride him. You start out slow, testing the waters - after all, he did just take a bad fall, you have no idea what he likes in terms of pace, how rough - but Jeno, it seems, doesn’t want slow. His good arm bracing against the wood of the locker, he begins to thrust up into you, hips rolling in time with your own. The first stroke nearly makes you scream, a noise you fortunately catch against his lips. One hand gripping his hair, the other holding onto the top shelf of his locker, you pay him back him kind, riding him hard and fast, taking him in again and again until it’s him who’s gasping against your lips, sweat-slicked chest heaving beneath you, part of the game of curling toes, bitten lips, starbursts of pleasure and pleasure singing through the veins like blood.

You briefly open your eyes and nearly come on the spot, watching the way Jeno’s face twists in pleasure, eyebrows drawing together, the way he bites his lip in a failing effort to stem in his low moans, the way he fills you so completely you know you’ll be sore, but aching for more all the same. Then he’s moaning, shaking, thrusting up into you desperately as his orgasm hits and then you really do come, a snap in your lower belly and then a flood of warmth, throughout your body, between your legs, soft and hard and bitter and sweet all at once.

For a while you just sit there, before everything starts to become cold and uncomfortable, and Jeno has to dispose of the condom before pulling up his askew gear. You pull your clothes back into place, busying yourself with the zip of your jacket as you begin to back away. Jeno leans back against the wall of his locker, eyelids heavy as the post-coital bliss hits him, but still making a concerted effort to look at your face.

“I have a few people to see,” you say. “Jaemin, Ryujin, everyone who’s been dragged into this whole mess, I owe them that respect. That’ll take some time, I’m sure. But if you ever decide, whether you want to be left alone, not left alone…”

You bite your lip, looking at Jeno, the broken golden boy, who is every bit and nothing like you expected, who has somehow managed to make your heart flutter, your head fuzzy, who makes you realize things you’d rather not, while also simultaneously making you want him in a way that almost hurts. 

Jeno raises an eyebrow, a shadow of his old smirk coming back. “I just let you fuck my brains out while wearing skates. You tell me.”


End file.
